


Playing the Part

by shireness



Series: Playing the Part [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Actor!Killian, Belle/literally anyone else 2k18, Broadway AU, F/M, Modern AU, Slow Burn, stage manager!Emma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-07-03 03:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 100,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15810222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shireness/pseuds/shireness
Summary: As a stage manager who's clawed her way up from the bottom, Emma Swan can handle just about anything thrown her way. But does that include handsome lead actor Killian Jones? A CS Broadway AU.





	1. Prologue: Overture

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T for language.
> 
> A quick disclaimer: my theater experience is purely at the community theater level and on the techie side, not the acting side. I strive for accuracy, but draw on my own experience and as such may not achieve it.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here - the Broadway AU I've been threatening to write for ages!
> 
> Chapter titles will be pulled from musical songs. The overture is traditionally the music after the lights dim but before the action on stage starts, and oftentimes sets the stage for the show to come by combining snippets of multiple musical numbers.

Emma Swan falls into working theater crew somewhat on accident.

That’s the story of her life, really – unexpectedly pregnant at 18, moved to New York on a whim (the reasoning being roughly “if not now, when?”), ended up with a job at Granny’s Diner because it happened to be next to what must be the only free parking in the city, and with a roommate because the owner’s granddaughter just happened to be looking for an apartment and a roommate at that very time.

In the same vein, while it was less of an accident that she became friends with Mary Margaret Blanchard (NYU theater major and friend of Ruby’s who liked to study at the diner), it was entirely by chance that Mary Margaret got her working crew. The truth of the matter is that Emma had a 4-month-old and very little cash, and the NYU theater department needed someone to do some scenery painting. While she may not have been the most artistic of people, Emma was pretty sure that she could handle putting paint on the wall. She could come in whenever she wasn’t working at Granny’s, and best of all, she could bring Henry with her in his carrier. It’s a perfect convergence of circumstances. The powers that be must have been pleased, because come show week, they’d asked her to stay and help move sets. And after that, well… things just spiraled from there.

The funny thing is that Emma had never considered herself a theater fan. When she had started working NYU shows, it had just been a job, not some great passion. Granted, she had only seen a terrible high school production of _Fiddler on the Roof_ and a nearly worse community theater production of _Ragtime_ – and both only because they were free and through her school at the time. There just wasn’t really a chance to see any quality theater as a foster kid. Ruby, when she found that out, naturally decided to fix the situation immediately by taking Emma and Mary Margaret to see _Chicago_ for her own birthday. And as soon as Emma heard “All That Jazz”… she was gone. There was no going back.

Emma somehow found herself an unofficial member of the NYU theater family, especially when visiting lecturers and special events used the auditorium – events that still needed staffing but that the theater majors were reluctant to assist with. From there, she followed Mary Margaret and Ruby (their own aspiring costume designer) through their own smaller roles and shows. Ruby took extra classes in hair and makeup at a local cosmetology school, hoping to expand her portfolio of talents. Mary Margaret kept adding to her resume any way she could, working on any show that would cast her. And Emma somehow continued working her way up the ranks, recommended by word of mouth, towing a toddler (and later a child) along with her. Somehow, all those fortunate accidents brought her here, to this moment – an adult with her own place, a great kid, a support system of friends she views as family, and an ever-rising positive reputation in a decently paid profession. For someone who thought, ten years ago, that her life would be a series of dead end jobs and tiny apartments shared with roommates she’d despise, every day is like she’s living a dream.

This feels like the pinnacle of her achievements, however. She’s certainly worked as a stage manager before – in fact, it’s become her own niche, calling the shots. Her unconventional education has resulted in a working knowledge of nearly all the aspects of technical theater, which has proved incredibly helpful in dealing with her various colleagues. It’s like speaking another language - people are more willing to fill her in on the more complicated terminology when she shows she knows the basics. But this… this is a whole different thing. This isn’t one of her Off-Broadway shows, or one of her limited runs, but a major production. It wasn’t supposed to be – when she signed on as stage manager, set to work with a young director she came up with at NYU, it was still Off-Broadway, an adaptation of _Pride & Prejudice _ they already knew would either be a huge hit or sink into obscurity. But then, some investor who loved the original work caught wind of Merlin’s vision, and suddenly, they had a significantly higher budget, a theater right in the heart of the theater district, and likely a lengthy run – if all goes well. Oh, and one more thing had significantly increased – the pressure on everyone involved.

Of course, just to complicate things, the change in venue isn’t the only thing weighing on Emma’s mind. Initially, Emma had been asked to serve as one of the assistant stage managers, to work backstage the way she prefers and relaying the stage manager’s orders, helping the entire show run smoothly. However, even that plan had changed. The intended production stage manager, finding herself pregnant with twins and violently ill as a result, chose not to participate in the show. Emma can’t blame her – she remembers how tired she was with Henry, and he was only one baby. But Merlin had then asked Emma to step up into an expanded role, saying that he trusted her for this position more than anyone else.

Emma’s flattered, she really is, but the truth is that she’s never run a show at this level. Call the cues for a show, check the equipment, coordinate everything that needs to happen? Yes, sure, of course. She can do that  in her sleep now (somewhat literally, sadly – she’s developed an unconscious habit of dreaming the various light cues). She’s stage managed her smaller shows without any issues. But with a budget this large and stakes this high? Feeling like she personally is the linchpin that could make this show soar or crash in spectacular fashion? On a show they’re all aware could make their careers? That’s new, and terrifying, and Emma privately wonders if she’s the right woman for the job.

But she takes the promotion for that very reason - it’s new, and an incredible opportunity to get her name out there if the production succeeds. She’d be an idiot to turn this down, but that doesn’t make her any less nervous.

Really, at the end of the day, this latest promotion is representative of how she’s made her way through most of her career – a bunch of happy accidents and an unwillingness to say no to any opportunity, now having lead her to a cold room and a crowd of men who all want to be Mr. Darcy.

_Nice._

Honestly, this part of the job leaves her as basically a glorified secretary, recording everyone’s contact information so that she and Merlin can handle callbacks later. He asks for her opinion every so often, but honestly, what is he expecting her to say? She can’t carry a tune, and her opinions are usually “yeah, he seems like he won’t be a complete pain in my ass”. They’ve already pre-cast their Elizabeth – a lovely woman named Belle French, who had been an up-and-coming TV actress before an ugly scandal with a prominent producer – but Merlin had wanted someone new for Mr. Darcy. Emma can’t help but understand and agree with that decision – Mr. Darcy is somewhat of an unknown factor for so much of the source material, it seems appropriate that their actor also be something of an unknown quantity, someone the public doesn’t know how to define yet. Unfortunately, they must have overly emphasized the arrogant side of Darcy in the casting call, not the shy romantic, which seems to have brought out every egotistical actor in the city - all convinced that they would be perfect for the role. Don’t get her wrong, the arrogant façade Darcy presents is certainly important (and definitely present in this room, good lord), but _Pride & Prejudice _ was one of the few books in high school Emma actually enjoyed – she knows there needs to be more than that. Whoever they choose needs to also be able to pull off a certain amount of vulnerability, a certain level of discomfort and awkwardness. So many of these would-be Darcys are just too… _suave_ for her taste.

That’s why she’s particularly hopeful about this next prospect. He had swaggered in, as confident as the rest, but as she’d watched him interact with the others, there had been a certain amount of nerves that the rest weren’t letting show. He aces the choreography audition (perhaps because he throws himself into rehearsing in a way the others don’t, like it’ll ruin their persona if they’re shown practicing the steps), has a singing voice that will work well for Darcy (while looking adorable, scratching behind his ear when they ask about his relatively small experience on the stage). What really sells things for Emma, however, is how, when introduced to Belle for a test of how they’ll act together, he stutters over all his words and turns bright red after finally blurting out a “oh, I’ve heard so much about you!”. He’s an awkward mess behind that swagger and false confidence, and it’s a little perfect.

(It doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eyes, and one of the more polite Darcys she’s dealt with today.)

So when, after a _very_ long day, she’s asked her opinion about the variety of men who auditioned that day, Emma doesn’t hesitate to put her personal vote in for Killian Jones.

God, she just hopes she doesn’t come to regret that decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the first chapter in the books! I've got a good backlog of these - 7 completed chapters, and sizable snippets of 4 more - so I should be able to post chapters every Monday.
> 
> Special thanks to @katie-dub for providing the title, @kmomof4 for reading through my outline for plot holes, and (of course) my ever-patient beta @snidgetsafan, who's just the all-around best.
> 
> This is also posted on tumblr - I'm @shireness-says. Come say hi and pester me with any questions you may have.
> 
> If you liked this, consider leaving kudos, comments, questions, and/or feedback. I love hearing from you guys - really keeps me moving forward in the writing process!
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you're excited to see where this goes!


	2. Chapter 1: Anything Can Happen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the Mary Poppins musical.
> 
> As always, any factual mistakes are born from my own inexperience. Bear with me, guys.
> 
> Enjoy!

Killian Jones is nervous.

Which is patently ridiculous. It’s not like he’s auditioning; he already has the job. He just needs to show up and do that job. It still doesn’t mean he stops feeling like a kindergartener on his first day of school, desperately hoping all the other kids like him.

Liam finds the whole thing absolutely hilarious, the bastard. “You’ve got to relax, Kil,” he laughs with that patented tone of voice Killian knows means Liam thinks he’s being ridiculous. “You’re just psyching yourself out, that’s not useful for anyone.”

This is all his fault, really. It was Liam who always had the big dreams of becoming a fancy movie star. Killian would have been perfectly happy in some kind of normal job, maybe play a bit of music on the side as a hobby. He spent his childhood and young adulthood happily supporting Liam’s dreams - attending every show, painting scenery, picking up lunch, whatever was needed. And Liam  _ had _ made it, moving out to California and securing little roles at first, before somehow landing a major ongoing role in a superhero franchise,  _ The Cavalry _ . Killian was  _ so _ proud, happy to continue in his role of adoring younger brother while holding down a job at the harbor. Acting had never been on his radar, and still wasn’t. But Liam had arranged a little bit part in one of his films - practically a cameo, really - and like that, Killian was hooked. He’d well and truly caught the acting bug, and there was no going back.

Where Liam thrives on the structure of film and television, with opportunities to try something different each time thanks to multiple takes and forgiveness for mistakes, Killian conversely prefers the theater. There’s an adrenaline with live performance that can’t be matched. Any mistakes that might happen have to be worked with and worked around, right at that moment. There’s no do-overs; you just have to hope the audience doesn’t notice. It’s incredibly stressful. It’s also entirely addicting.

He’s been establishing himself in the theater community for about three years now. Even if Liam does prefer to stick to filmed acting, he’s an enormous help as Killian tries to create a name for himself. In this business, it’s all about who you know, and Liam has far more connections than he does. He’s been very lucky - securing chorus and understudy roles in limited run musicals, and somewhat larger –   though still small – speaking parts in a few plays. But Smee - a rather nervous man, but an excellent agent - had heard about this show, and Liam had encouraged him to audition, and before he knows it, he’s been cast as Mr. Darcy. The role of a lifetime. His big break.

(If he doesn’t immediately fuck it up.)

Killian is brought back to the present by Liam’s laughter on the other end of the line, suddenly very aware that he hasn’t been listening at all and has probably been silent for far too long.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, not sure if he actually means the word. It’s habit more than anything.

Liam finally curbs his chuckles as the conversation returns to more serious ground. “Honestly, brother, it will be fine. They liked you. This is a great opportunity. Try and relax enough to enjoy it, aye?”

“Aye,” he mumbles right back. It’ll be fine. Liam says it’ll be fine, so it’ll be fine. He was hired for a reason, and now has a whole bunch of signed paperwork to prove it. “It’ll be fine. Listen, I ought to get ready to go, but I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

“Sounds good. You’ll be great, little brother, knock ‘em dead.” The line cuts out before Killian can even muster a correction.

He can do this. He just… needs to believe, or something.

\------

“Mom, you’re going to be late!” Henry calls, completely unnecessarily. Emma already knows she’s running late, and there’s something especially grating about your ten-year-old reminding you of the fact. She’s a grown ass adult; she is well aware of her own challenges with time and sticking to a schedule, thank you very much (ironic as it may be).

The truth is, even if she is running a few minutes late, it won’t matter so much, since she’ll still be at the rehearsal space a full hour earlier than everyone else. But Henry, great kid that he is, somehow inherited a punctual gene somewhere along the line. More power to him.

(And then again, she’s pretty sure her Equity contract has some very specific language about showing up to work on time, so it’s probably best that she hurries anyway.)

Quickly, she double-checks the new file box Henry got her last Mother’s Day to make sure she has everything she needs. It’s comparatively light today: plenty of post-its and pencils, several notepads, a basic first aid kit, some spike tape and duct tape. The necessities, if you will. The box is relatively light right now, but Emma knows it will fill up as they move from rehearsals to dress rehearsals to actual shows. There’s so much  _ stuff _ she never knew she’d be expected to have on hand when she first started, and some days, Emma feels like she’s lugging half the house behind her.

Her supply box is packed. Her script and laptop are already loaded into the messenger bag. Her wallet is… somewhere, probably right by the door, but it contains Emma’s Metro pass, so there’s no chance of forgetting that. The last thing she really needs to deal with is Henry himself. 

Normally, they don’t run into this problem. Normally, there’s a whole schedule, one she’s already cleared by Merlin, in which Emma sees Henry off to school in the morning, then goes to the theater or rehearsal space later and Henry catches the train in the afternoon to wherever she’s at to hang out for a few hours and help with whatever odd jobs Emma assigns him before their neighbor, Elsa, comes to pick him up and keep an eye on him in the evenings. Henry will be eleven in November, and Emma’s been trying to give him a little more freedom, so they’ve finally reached the point where Elsa mostly leaves him be, just making sure he’s fed and popping in to make sure he’s actually making progress on his homework instead of just playing video games. He probably could be trusted to go straight home from school, just text Emma when he reaches their apartment, but Emma likes their little routine, likes having a few extra hours a day with her son, and Henry has loved the theater since he was a tiny little kid. So they stick with their status quo, even as Henry is beginning to outgrow some of the restrictions put in place.

But it’s still August, and school won’t start for another couple of weeks. Emma’s fine leaving him home alone, mostly, but there’s still always a list of things she feels like she needs to run through with her increasingly independent pre-teen before she can actually leave him to his own devices.

“Ok, so Mrs. Greer down the hall with stop by periodically just to check on you, and there’s money on the counter for lunch. Just have them deliver, ok? No wandering around, trying to figure out what you want. Promise me?”

Henry rolls his eyes in a way he  _ definitely  _ got from her, but nods all the same. “Yeah, Mom, I promise.”

It makes her stomach turn a little bit, but she adds a last necessary reminder all the same. “And remember, your dad is supposed to call today, so be watching your phone for that. You know he can’t stick to a scheduled time.”

“I  _ will _ , Mom!” His tone is exasperated, but Emma sees how he perks up all the same at the prospect of talking with his dad.

Neal had been less than receptive to the idea of fatherhood, back when they were still in high school and she told him she was pregnant. In fact, he had insisted vehemently that the baby wasn’t his,  _ couldn’t _ be his. Never mind the fact that Neal was the only person Emma had ever had sex with. No, he didn’t want to be a father, so he decided the baby wasn’t his, and that was the end of Neal and Emma. 

And Emma had been fine with that; had adjusted herself to the idea of raising the kid entirely on her own. Granny and Ruby and all the support system they had brought with them had been a wonderful surprise and an enormous help, but she had been prepared to do it on her own. Neal had never figured into the equation. And honestly, Emma still isn’t convinced that wasn’t for the best.

Henry had been five when Neal had entered his life. Apparently, having graduated college, started at his father’s antiquities dealing firm and met some nice woman, he wanted to make amends and deal with his past (bullshit that  _ that _ was). It had been a tough pill for Emma to swallow, and she almost hadn’t let Neal have anything to do with Henry. It wasn’t Neal’s yammering on about his ‘rights’ that swayed her; as far as Emma was concerned, he had given up those rights years ago, when he had denied he was Henry’s father. But Emma remembers growing up without parents, and even though Henry had been growing up with a mother catering to his every whim, it had niggled at her, the idea of keeping Henry from knowing his father. 

So Neal had become a sporadic figure in Henry’s life. The sporadicness is entirely of Neal’s doing, she’d like to clarify; she’s not denying him access to his son or anything. Neal is just the type to be distracted by everything else, especially since he lives upstate and hours away. Henry spends two weeks with his dad in the summer months, and the occasional weekend about once every two months when Neal either stays in town or buys Henry a train ticket . Most of their relationship has been conducted over phone calls and Skype and FaceTime, if Emma’s being honest. So anytime the prospect of reminding Henry about one of his scheduled phone calls makes Emma a little nauseous, she does her best to ignore it so that her son can have some sort of relationship with his dad.

“Really, Mom, you’re going to be late if you don’t leave,”  Henry is saying, pulling her out of her thoughts. Dammit, he’s still right. 

She slips her shoes on hurriedly, running through her mental list of last things to tell Henry, only to realize there’s nothing else. “Ok, well, you’ll call me if anything happens, if you need anything?”

“ _ Yes _ , Mom, now go!” His impatient tone makes her feel like he’s the parent instead of her, almost to the point of insolence, but Emma really,  _ really _ doesn’t have the time or inclination to address that right now.

“Ok, ok,” she says, dropping a kiss on top of his head, hair still messy even at eleven in the morning. “Love you, kid.”

“Love you too.”

\------

Killian Jones prides himself on being on time - early, even - so it’s with some shock that he arrives at the rehearsal space to find a group of people already present. The director is easy enough to recognize, as is the stern blonde stage manager - Ella? Emma? Etta? - but the rest, he assumes, are his castmates. It’s a little intimidating, facing them all. Killian was never an outgoing kid at school, prone to shyness and lurking at the edge of crowds, and this is the stuff of all his pre-teen nightmares. 

Thankfully, the situation is taken out of his hands when a tall blond man strides his way, hand outstretched. 

“You’re our Darcy, right?” he asks, before continuing without waiting for an answer. “I’m David Nolan. They cast me as Bingley, so we’re going to be working a lot together.”

Well, he’s certainly affable enough for the part. What’s that saying, about making a friend on your first day? David Nolan certainly seems like he’ll be a good one. “Killian Jones, the Darcy to your Bingley. Pleasure.”

“Ah, he’s a Brit too! Great, we’re going to have quite the collection of people here. Have you met anyone? Let me introduce you.”

And David Nolan proceeds to tour him around the room, introducing him to each and every person who’s already there and guiding him through the rest of the introductions as more people arrive. It’s a good group they’ve assembled, he decides, filled with people he’s confident will be believable as their characters. Belle, their Elizabeth, he’s already acquainted with, but her genuine smile upon seeing him again is a welcome reassurance. Beyond that, he’s introduced to August Booth, a genial man cast to play Colonel Fitzwilliam; Kathryn Aurum, the woman playing Jane, who seems reserved but kinder than her initially haughty expression would suggest; Aurora (whose last name he promptly forgot), a quiet but talented young lady who would be portraying Miss Georgiana Darcy; and countless other faces that Killian’s certain he’ll come to know in time.

Truthfully, all the faces start to blur together a bit; in a few weeks, they’re sure to be as familiar as family to him, but in this moment, faced with so many introductions, there’s next to no hope of remembering everyone. The only break from the monotony of introductions occurs when David presents them both to a pixie-haired brunette. David barely manages to begin his routine spiel - “Excuse me, just wanted to introduce ourselves, I’m David Nolan and this is…” when the petite woman turns to fully face them, striking David dumb in the middle of his sentence, mouth gaping like he’s catching flies.

When it’s clear David won’t be continuing any further in his sentence, Killian hastily jumps in, picking up where the blond man left off. “And I’m Killian Jones,” he supplies, sticking out a friendly hand to shake. “Bingley and Darcy respectively. And you are…?”

“Oh! I’m Mary Margaret. Blanchard. Mary Margaret Blanchard. I’m going to be playing Charlotte.” Her end of the introductions made, Mary Margaret blushes, setting off a flush of red on David’s cheeks as well. Really, it’s like watching an odd game of Edwardian-era manners tennis, Killian thinks, the way these two are acting with one another. He’ll have to keep an eye on how this develops; it’s sure to be entertaining.

“I’m sure you’ll be great,” David bursts out, seemingly finding his words again, and Killian bites back a laugh at his new friend’s expense. David seems to be a good man, and a kind one, but he doesn’t appear to be smooth in least when it comes to interacting with the opposite sex. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Thankfully, Mary Margaret doesn’t seem to mind, her blush spreading across her cheeks with a delighted smile. “Well you certainly seem a natural Mr. Bingley,” she offers in return, causing David to break out into a bashful grin. 

Really, the whole display, while partially adorable, veers closer and closer to nauseating with every second. Thankfully, David and Mary Margaret are far too distracted with one another and what Killian is sure will one day be described in a wedding toast as “love at first sight” to notice him slipping off across the room.

He gains more confidence as the day continues. It helps when they actually get down to the script read-through, allowing himself to get lost in the words and the character rather than social niceties. There’s a few trouble spots he can already detect - the man serving as his understudy, who’s also cast as Wickham, seems particularly nasty - but the day overall goes better than his earlier nerves had led him to believe. The only major trip-up occurs during costume fittings, when faced with the brunette force of nature he learns is named Ruby Lucas - a fitting name to match the wolfish smile she aims his way. Inseam fittings have always been a slightly awkward affair, as any non-sexual undertaking bringing hands so close to one’s crotch is inevitably fated to be, but the teasing comments Ruby seems to speak in out of habit certainly don’t help the matter. 

He will say, he’s strangely fascinated by the stage manager. Emma Swan, he’s told her name is. The whole while she’s a quiet presence by the director’s side, occasionally letting out a little snort at some of the wittier lines. Her pen and pencil are constantly moving, writing notes on a variety of scripts and notepads in a system he’s sure only she understands. No one else seems to pay her much attention, but his eye is constantly drawn to her sunshine hair and the concentrated furrow in her brow. She’s inexplicably fascinating, and Killian greatly looks forward to working with her further.

\------

Read through goes… about as well as she expects. The full read cements in her mind that the show is well cast, thankfully, and that Emma didn’t make a mistake in recommending Jones for Mr. Darcy, but they’re only at the beginning of this process. There’s still a lot that could go wrong. Emma can already see a few trouble spots; their Caroline Bingley in particular seems like she may become a concern. When they had cast her, it had seemed like a real piece of luck. Zelena Mills was the daughter of a famous Broadway leading lady; of course, in the casting process, everyone forgot that Cora Mills was famous for being a  _ diva _ , and her daughter seems to be determined to carry on that legacy. The younger Ms. Mills is as self-centered as they come, turning up her nose at anyone with a less impressive acting resume than her. Honestly, she rather fits the role she’s been asked to play. Unfortunately, Emma severely doubts that this is a case of method acting. No, Zelena comes by that snobbishness naturally.

There’s no use worrying about it before anything truly concerning happens, especially not right now, when she’s got a production meeting to worry about instead. True, Emma had been excited to see the entire cast together, to see how they’d mesh, to get a better idea of how they might play their characters, but she’s a crew rat at heart. And the technical and design team is a huge part of the reason she signed on for this show.

Ok, if she’s being honest, it’s mostly one person she’s excited to work with. She doesn’t mean offense towards the others; she trusts Merlin’s judgement, and is sure they’re visionary experts in their own crafts. But Robin Loxley is in a league of his own, really. He’d been a rising star in techie circles, known for his unerring accuracy in his lighting cues and keeping actors in spots, before his wife had tragically died and left him with an infant son. He’d taken an understandable break from the craft - theater hours not lending themselves to parenting an infant as a single parent, as Emma knows better than anyone. But somewhere along the line, he’d been offered the chance to design the lighting for a show without being the man at the light board, and his career had taken off in an entirely different direction. Emma can’t help but admire his determination, and the way he found a way to continue his passion while still being around for his little boy. But now, four years later, he’s back. Merlin had offered Loxley the opportunity to act both as lighting designer and lighting technician, a chance to get back into the theater and the action, and the man had gladly accepted the opportunity. It’s an amazing opportunity for the show, and for the man, and Emma is thrilled at the knowledge she’ll be working with a techie legend.

Emma doesn’t know what kind of magic Merlin worked, because really, the entire team is great. Miss Blue, while a bit uptight, has made a name for herself as  _ the _ designer for period pieces, with Ruby assisting in hair and makeup; Anton Little, the set designer, is an unknown quantity to Emma, but highly recommended by Loxley; and Kristoff Anderssen is one of Emma’s favorite sound guys. It’s a good group; the tech and design on this show should be flawless, if nothing else. 

The late afternoon design meeting is a lot more casual, as Emma had already anticipated. Actors always bring a drama that permeates even the most casual of meetings - a sense of clashing egos and sensitive feelings that, while beautifully translated onto the stage, can make basic interactions feel like a minefield. Emma has long lived by the rule of never forming any kind of relationship with an actor; it’s not worth the hassle. Her friendship with Mary Margaret is the one exception, and even she is frighteningly in touch with her feelings - it’s just been overlooked over time due to the amazing support she’s provided Emma over the years. 

However skilled Emma may have become at the actor-wrangling part of her job over the years - a technique that largely centers around refusing to choose sides and placating wherever she can - this is the part Emma really loves: sitting in a circle with like-minded people, talking through how they might want this show to look.

“Let me know how you want to handle the piano,” Kristoff is saying, “whether you want it live or taped or from the orchestra. Speaking of, Emma, can you either talk to the conductor and figure out what sound effects they want to handle or get me his number so I can talk to him myself?”

Emma nods, writing a note on yet another legal pad. Jesus, she’s got four or five of them going right now. “No problem, I’ll draft a tentative list of what we’ll need and get that to you with the number.” Onto a previous list:  _ schedule time with Merlin to discuss sound cues _ .

“Great. And then Lucas, let me know when you’ve got an idea of how many characters will be wearing wigs so I can plan the body mics accordingly.”

“As long as we’re talking costumes,” Merlin cuts in, “I’d like to hear what you two are thinking so far, and how Robin will need to plan around it…”

The next hour and a half flies by in a frenzy of notes and coordination of ideas. Emma now has a meeting to talk through the sound cues with Merlin before rehearsal tomorrow, and notes to call the props master with another list sometime tomorrow. There’s ink all over her hands and the nice organization system that Henry created in the manager box has already been shot to hell, but there’s a feeling of particular satisfaction only a well-executed show can give her.

\------

It’s not too late when she gets home - not yet, anyways - so Henry’s still camped out on the couch, playing some video game. Emma thinks it’s the one she’s never really been able to get the hang of. 

“How was your day, kid?”

“Good,” he mumbles absent-mindedly, wholly engrossed in his game. Emma apparently will have to wait for him to finish before she’ll be able to have a real conversation with her son. Spotting a take-out burger bag on the counter, and considering he’s still in his pajama bottoms, she’s confident that his mumbled response was accurate, and he had a great day, by 10-year-old standards.

Sure enough, when he finishes his on-screen fight and presses pause, he jumps into a more elaborate explanation. “It was really good! I got a bacon cheeseburger delivered and finally finished that level I’ve been trying to beat. And don’t worry, Mrs. Greer came and checked on me a few times. There’s a piece of cheesecake for you in the fridge that she brought over, by the way.”

Henry’s words spur a quick detour to the fridge, where sure enough, there’s a slice of chocolate deliciousness ready and waiting for her. Thank you, Mrs. Greer. “And how’d the call with your dad go?” she asks, searching through the dishwasher for a fork, only popping up just in time to see the way Henry’s face lights up. 

“Great! He wants me to take the train up for Labor Day. Is that ok, Mom? Please?”

It’s… possibly ok. Neal isn’t the one who has to worry about teachers and homework on a regular basis, so he never really has any idea when exactly Henry needs to be back for school, and his first day back from summer vacation is the day after Labor Day. “Let me call your dad and nail down the details, but yeah, I’m sure we can work something out. As long as you’re back in time to get a good night’s sleep before the first day of school.”

Henry rolls his eyes at her qualifiers, but still seems happy enough, so Emma’s taking that as a win. “Fine. Thanks.”

They sit in a comfortable silence together on the couch for a few moments, Henry turning back to his game as Emma starts in on the dessert. It’s a minute or two later when Henry suddenly pauses his game, like he’s suddenly remembered something, and Emma worries for a moment that something happened until he actually speaks. 

“How’d it go today? Does it seem like it’ll be a good show?”

Emma smiles, thinking through the events of the day as she finishes chewing her bite of cheesecake. “Yeah, you know what? I think this is going to be a good one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Killian is not nearly as confident as he likes to pretend, and Emma is juggling so much at once. What else is new. Featuring the first of many Brothers Jones phone calls, which are basically my favorite thing to write. Next chapter - some actual interaction between our two faves!
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my wonderful beta, @snidgetsafan, who puts up with my last minute additions. Really - The Best.
> 
> Also posted on tumblr - I'm @shireness-says. Come say hi.
> 
> Thanks for your lovely feedback so far! I love hearing from you guys, so if you liked this, consider leaving kudos or comments. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you're excited for next week's chapter!


	3. Chapter 2: Getting to Know You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "The King and I".
> 
> This chapter addresses Belle's backstory, which is... less than pleasant. Nothing so bad that there need to be archive warnings, but power dynamics were definitely taken advantage of. I want to make it clear that I'm not condoning what's happened to her, and I've tried to express that in the actual writing, but I just want to reiterate it here. Just because it happened, doesn't mean I'm ok with it, or that you have to be either.
> 
> Anyway, on that downer note, enjoy this chapter, featuring my favorite Brothers Jones call I've written yet and a fun Captain Swan bonding moment!

“... but not handsome enough to tempt  _ me _ .”

God, he hates that line. Yes, it’s from the source material, and yes, it is crucial to the plot, but he always feels like an absolute dick saying it. Belle is an absolutely lovely woman, inside and out, and doesn’t deserve to hear those words directed her way, even in character.

He’s actually apologized for the way he’s acted before in character, had felt like he had to. Belle, bless her heart, laughed and waved off his apologies. 

“For the record, I can tell the difference between you and your character, Killian,” she had said. “Please don’t worry about it.”

But he worries anyways. Part of it is just his nature, Killian supposes - he’s a man with a heart built for concern and mild anxiety, it seems. But Belle really does seem rather isolated, and he hates to reinforce that even in character.

He’s heard the rumors, of course - the industry is smaller than they’d like to pretend, and when word made it around that Belle French had been cast in the iconic role of Elizabeth Bennet, old gossip about the woman had made the rounds again too. It’s a horrible story, predictable in all the worst ways: young, up-and-coming actress embarks on a relationship with an older producer. Actress decides that the relationship has run its course. Actress is suddenly, mysteriously branded as “difficult to work with” and struggles to land roles.

Meeting Belle in person, it’s particularly absurd. She’s ridiculously talented and probably one of the nicest and least difficult people he knows and really, it’s not fair. There’s been an increase in accountability in this industry lately, something that’s desperately needed, but the lawyers are still focused on the things they can prosecute - obvious cases of assault and manipulation. Belle’s circumstances don’t clearly fit either of those criteria, having willingly engaged in the relationship, one she thought was based on mutual respect and affection. It doesn’t help that Gold is a major player in this game, able to affect people’s opinions for better or worse with his word alone. For the past several years, Belle’s just been left to flounder on her own with her professional reputation wrongly in tatters. For the moment, no one cares. It’s all so disgustingly unfair.

Personally, Killian thinks Belle deserves the world. He hopes this show is a massive success for a variety of reasons - selfish ones obviously included - but not the least of them is the hope that it’ll reshape the current narrative around Belle, show that she’s talented and kind and an absolute delight. She needs that. She  _ deserves _ that.

Belle tells him about it herself one day over a cup of tea during one of the rehearsal breaks. He didn’t ask, not explicitly, but she must sense the confusion in his eyes and in his mind about how someone with so much sheer raw talent has been cast aside by the industry.

“He was such a  _ gentleman _ at first, you know? Yeah, I was getting roles, and probably part of that was because I was seeing him, but I genuinely loved him, and him me. I knew he had a reputation for being tough and focused on success above everything else, but he always encouraged me, and was so happy when I landed roles and was doing well. So when I felt the relationship had come to a natural end, I just figured…” She pauses in her recounting, hurriedly wiping at the tears forming in her eyes. Killian tries to comfort her as best he can, digging one-handed through his pockets for a tissue as he tries to rub her back soothingly with the other. He feels so useless, so male in this situation, but he’s still determined to help and comfort her in any way he can.

“I feel so stupid some days,” Belle continues, gratefully accepting the single kleenex he was able to locate in an inner jacket pocket (and God, he hopes it wasn’t used). “I just… I should have known right away he was insane.” 

Killian likes to think he’s a good friend, and a good man, but he’s also a kid who grew up in theaters and around theatre kids, and as he does his best to reassure his scene partner that she’s in no way responsible for the actions of that bastard, he has to forcibly remind himself not to smile at such a bad time at her unintentional quoting.

The stage manager, Emma, is walking past at just that moment, though, and he’s pretty sure he hears her mutter the next words under her breath, so he’s comforted by the knowledge that he’s not the only one with terrible timing and a bad sense of humor.

But again, it’s not the time to ask about it. Killian is 100% focused and committed to being a supportive friend to Belle in this moment - he’ll have to ask later. Preferably out of earshot, before they both get a reputation for being horrible human beings who laugh at unfortunate times.

But there’s never really a chance to ask later - their short break is up before he knows it, and then it’s straight back into choreography. Their choreographer, a vibrant redhead named Ariel, may have a sweet demeanor, but there’s a spine of steel underneath that smile, and Killian knows better than to dawdle. He’ll catch Emma later, he thinks, some time when he’s not needed. But even in those moments when Killian doesn’t strictly need to be doing anything but hang around and watch, waiting for his next instructions and ideally reviewing the script (it’s  _ never _ too soon to be off book, after all), Swan is invariably still busy.

So Killian waits. The opportunity will present itself, he’s sure.

\------

It’s been a good day, Emma is pleased to note. The sheer potential of this show is truly shaping up into something that, with plenty of polishing, just might be magnificent. There’s always going to be issues - after working so many shows, Emma has learned that off-stage drama is an inevitability - but for the most part, even the cast is obliging her by staying professional and getting along. Which is literally all she asks for. Zelena has a definite penchant to complain about anything and everything, but it’s not yet at a point that they can’t handle or that needs addressing.

Still, even a good day is exhausting in it’s own way. Emma is ready to make whatever calls are necessary (just Robin and the props guy today, she thinks), and get home. Yeah, the apartment will be quiet with Henry at Neal’s for Labor Day weekend, but she could probably use a little quiet - a chance to recharge, if you will.

However, that chance disintegrates at the sight of Mary Margaret approaching with a smile full of intent. For all her sweetness, Emma’s learned that her friend can be stubborn and determined, nigh on unmovable when she wants to be, and all the signs are suggesting this will be one of those times.

“Emma!” the petite brunette practically chirps. “It’s been so long since we’ve had a Girl’s Night, hasn’t it?”

It’s not a subtle opening at all, and Emma spots where Mary Margaret is going with this from a mile away. “Oh, I don’t know,” she tries to deflect, hoping against hope that maybe she can still wheedle herself out of these plans. “Seems like we all did something only a few weeks ago —”

“Don’t be silly,” Mary Margaret interrupts, flippantly waving a hand as if to literally shoo Emma’s protests away. “You’re thinking of that brunch date we had, the one Henry came to. It’s been  _ ages _ since we had a proper Girls’ Night. And since Henry’s gone this weekend, really, there’s no better time!”

“I don’t know,” Emma tries to protest. “I’ve really got a lot that still needs doing, I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it.” It’s not true in the least. The best part about a good day is that even when she is left with things on her to-do list, they’re quick little housekeeping bits, not major crises she needs to untangle. Unfortunately, after a decade of friendship, Mary Margaret knows that too, and fixes her with an unimpressed look.

“Uh uh,” she responds, shaking her head with finality. “No excuses. I’m going to find Ruby, and we are going out. I won’t let you sit at home all lonely with Henry gone. You’re not getting out of this, Emma Swan.”

Much as Emma hates to admit it - hates to admit defeat in general, really - she’s well aware that she really isn’t going to be able to weasel her way out of this. When Mary Margaret gets that look in her eye and that tone in her voice, nothing can sway her from whatever evil plan she’s devised. For better or worse, Emma  _ will _ be going out tonight. She only hopes it won’t be too miserable an outing. “Fine,” she concedes, holding up a hand to silence Mary Margaret’s happy squeal. “But I am  _ not _ lonely. And only for a little bit.”

“Oh Emma, we’re going to have so much fun!” her friend gushes, seemingly ignoring the end of Emma’s sentence. “I’ll call Ruby right now, have her meet us at the Grey Lady. Oh! I wonder if Belle would want to go!”

Emma groans as her dreams of a quiet evening in drift further and further away with every expansion of Mary Margaret’s plans. The likelihood of fun seems pretty small right now; Emma settles for just hoping she’ll make it out of this alive and sans hangover.

\------

It’s been a long day, but a rewarding one. His script is filled with new notes, he finally isn’t tripping over the rhythms of the proposal scene song, and his feet are tired from practicing ballroom steps over and over again. It’s a pattern he’s getting used to, day by day, but the fact still remains; it’s exhausting.

Killian is just planning to finally go talk to their fearless stage manager, see if she said what he’s 87.9% certain he heard and hopefully trudge home when Nolan practically corners him, effectively ending that plan.

“You’ve got to come out tonight,” David whispers frantically, hunched over in a way that he must think looks surreptitious, but in reality just looks awkward and uncomfortable.

“Ok…” Killian whispers back. “Why?”

“Because I just heard that Mary Margaret is going to be at the Grey Lady tonight with a group of friends!”

“...okay, and?”

“ _ And I like her! _ ” David hisses, seemingly insulted for no apparent reason. 

“Calm down, mate, jeez. What, you need an excuse to go, rather than just showing up?”

“ _ Yes! _ ” 

“Do I have to whisper the entire night?”

This is apparently the last of David’s patience, as he rolls his eyes and snaps out a response. “For God’s sakes, no. Now will you come with me, or not?”

It’d really be mean at this point, after all the teasing, to tell him no. Killian doesn’t really have plans anyways; he’d tentatively scheduled a call with Liam, but they can always talk later and text throughout the night.

“Alright, Dave, I’ll go with you. Where’s this place at?”

“... About that…”

Excellent.

\------

_ Only for a little bit _ , she had told Mary Margaret. And she had meant it; despite all her friend’s wheedling about how she’d be lonely at home with Henry at Neal’s, Emma had been looking forward to a quiet evening. Of course, that’s all wishful thinking. 

Belle  _ had _ been interested in joining the outing, as had Elsa, as had their Lydia and three of the chorus girls since it seemed like Mary Margaret had invited  _ every female member of the cast _ . The Grey Lady has been reduced to a cacophony of female laughter and conversation as Emma desperately tries to either escape or ignore the chaos, both efforts to no avail. For the moment, Emma’s perched at the end of the bar with Elsa trying to cheer her up, purple drink in hand (a Grateful Dead, because “you can’t just get whiskey, Emma, this is Girls’ Night, you have to get something  _ fun _ .” Ugh.).

“I know you don’t want to be here in the least,” Elsa tries to cajole, “but hey, as long as you’re here, you might as well make the most of it. We can play a game of darts or something if you want, that’d at least get you out of the major crush here at the bar.”

She means so well, trying to coax Emma out of the corner and out of her funk, but honestly, Emma’s quite determined to stay exactly as she is. “It’s really fine, Elsa,” she replies. “Honestly, I’m just hoping that if I sit here and don’t move for long enough, Mary Margaret will forget that I’m here and maybe I can just slip out.”

Elsa snorts at that, which is really enough of a response on its own. “Yeah, good luck with that.” Her face still turns concerned and serious when the humor wears off as she does her best to fuss over Emma. “Are you sure? I’m happy to stay with you if you want, but if you don’t…” Elsa trails off tellingly. Emma honestly feels a little bit bad. For all her introversion, Elsa really does enjoy evenings out like this when she sets her mind to it, and Emma is effectively holding her back from having fun by insisting on being a sad sack at the bar. 

“Really, Elsa, I’m fine. Go have fun! It looks like they’re starting some kind of drinking game up over there, that’ll certainly be entertaining if nothing else.”

Elsa’s eyes dart back towards the other ladies longingly, but her voice and body language is still hesitant. “If you’re sure…”

“Yes! I’ll be fine. Don’t let my attitude ruin the night, I’m happy enough with my stupid purple drink. You know I like watching drinking games more than playing anyways. Go!”

“Alright, but you’ll let me know if you change your mind and want company, right?” Elsa fusses as she grabs her drink and stands to leave. It’s a small progress. Emma nods impatiently, all but ready to push Elsa towards the other women. It must be obvious on her face though, as Elsa laughs before dropping an affectionate kiss on the side of Emma’s head. “Ok, ok, I’m gone. Do try to have fun, Emma, just find someone to talk to for ten minutes. And don’t drink too much, because I’m going to need you to lead me back home!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma mutters in response. She makes no promises, especially on the socializing front.

———

The bar is much busier than Killian had expected when he, David, and Booth arrive. Killian isn’t exactly sure how the last man got invited; he certainly didn’t have any part in it. August Booth is a genial enough man, however, a perfect casting for Colonel Fitzwilliam in temperament, so his presence tonight won’t be any true hardship. If Killian had to hazard a guess, David had probably invited him for more credence to his cover story that he just  _ happens _ to be at the same bar as the lady he’s interested in on some sort of boys’ night outing. It seems that the ladies’ outing may have expanded as well; while Killian had expected to see Mary Margaret and Swan, it appears half the female cast is crowded into the bar as well, Mary Margaret unsurprisingly at the center of everything, playing hostess even though the bar is obviously not her house. It doesn’t take long for her to notice their own little group’s entrance, and she hurries over with a wide smile.

“David! Killian! August! What a pleasant surprise!” she gushes. Killian is amused to see that her cheeks are ever-so-slightly flushed. Perhaps David’s little crush isn’t quite so ridiculous as he seems to think. David himself looks a little struck by his lady’s entrance, so Killian quickly takes the reins of the conversation.

“Aye, it truly is. Thought we’d go out tonight, have a bit of a bonding exercise. You don’t mind that we’re here, do you? We didn’t mean to crash whatever you’ve got going on here.” It’s a blatant lie, but Killian is counting on the brunette being too flustered by their - well,  _ David’s _ sudden appearance to notice.

It seems to be working, thankfully, as Mary Margaret smiles brightly. “Of course not! We planned this as a little Girls’ Night, but you’re more than welcome to stay and socialize! The more the merrier, right?”

It’s impossible not to like the woman, really. While she’s far too perky for Killian to ever be romantically interested, Mary Margaret is such a deeply kind and pleasant person that only the truly cruel would ever take a dislike to her. “Aye, thank you.”

“Is that some sort of drinking game I see about to start?” August cuts in, likely saving them all from an encounter quickly veering towards the awkward and overly sincere.

“I think it’s more of a contest, knowing Ruby,” their quasi-host laughs, “but yes, they’re about to start. A bit wild for me, so I was about to go get another cosmo. David, Killian? Do either of you want to join me?” The invitation is technically extended to both of them, but Killian sees the way her gaze keeps focusing on David, hears the way her voice pitches up hopefully, and quickly makes his excuses. 

“I actually think I might grab a beer and try my hand at the dart board, so I’ll leave you two to it.” It’s probably not the most subtle move, but David’s already shooting him a grateful look, so he supposes that his words have been effective enough.

It’s as he’s walking further down the bar to get his drink that he spots Swan in the corner, where he hadn’t noticed her when he had entered the bar, wearing a sour look on her face and sipping on something in a near fluorescent purple. Somehow, he’s not surprised to see her set apart from the thick of things; their straight-laced stage manager doesn’t seem like she’d be particularly comfortable in a chattering crowd of women. It may be taking his life in his hands considering the look Swan has on her face, but he veers to join her at the end of the bar, more enthusiastic about the prospect of spending his time chatting with her than facing the female crush everywhere else.

The skeptical look Swan shoots him as he saunters over with a charming smile should be his second warning, but Killian’s never had much of a self-preservation instinct anyways. “Fancy meeting you here,” he grins.

Swan snorts in return. “Oh, that’s what you’re going with?”

“I couldn’t possibly know what you mean.” It’s another blatant lie, and unlike Mary Margaret, Killian can see that Swan knows exactly why he’s really doing in this bar, sees right past all his and David’s excuses.

“Oh please,” Swan replies, rolling her eyes and confirming what he had expected about her ability to spot his lies. “Like you guys showing up isn’t a blatant excuse for David to flirt with Mary Margaret. The only reason she doesn’t realize it is she’s so damn smitten herself. It’s a little disgusting.”

“You wound me, Swan. It’s an absolute coincidence that we happen to be at the same bar.” Receiving a final unamused look, he collapses onto a stool, giving up the pretense. “They really are smitten, aren’t they? And absolutely obtuse about the matter.”

“Really, they are,” Swan grumbles in return. “Like, it’s  _ so _ obvious they’ve got a thing for each other, I’m about ready to start placing bets about how long it will take.”

Killian chuckles. “Well, let me know if you ever do, I’d be happy to contribute to the pot.” There’s silence between them for a few minutes as Killian orders his beer, turning back to his companion once his cold drink is in hand. “I can leave you alone if you’d prefer,” he offers, noting the stormy look still occupying her face. “Conversation with you seemed much less intimidating than with the chattering female masses over there, but if you prefer —”

“It’s fine, really,” she waves him off. “I’m just…” she pauses, as if trying to find the words to explain.

“Really Swan, I don’t need an explanation if you don’t —”

“Did you know I have a son?” she interrupts.

It’s news to him. It does explain why he so often catches her trying to surreptitiously check her phone - probably trying to make sure nothing’s wrong with her boy. As he shakes his head in the negative, Emma continues. 

“Well, I do. He’s ten. He’s with his dad this weekend. And I’m glad he’s excited about that, but it always makes me…” She waves at her face and its expression, as if that’s an acceptable substitute for actually finishing her sentence with words. Honestly, she’s not wrong on that front, her irritated expression speaking volumes. “So it’s not you, and it’s not the company, and it’s not this outing or party or whatever.” She pauses. “Ok, maybe the last one, but that’s because I’d much rather be at home angrily drinking by myself than being dragged out on the town. But Mary Margaret and Ruby are convinced that if I’m at home, I’ll be wallowing in loneliness, so they dragged me out here against my will.” Another eye roll clearly illustrates Swan’s own thoughts on the matter, and Killian finds himself inexplicably charmed by the gesture. The more he learns and sees of Emma Swan, the more he’s fascinated by her, and he’s glad she hasn’t just unceremoniously sent him on his way tonight.

“Ah, well, that makes two of us,” Killian replies genially, before immediately backtracking. “Not the son bit, but the not particularly wanting to be here. I’d planned to go home and call my brother tonight, but David practically begged me to help in this little farce and… well, long story short, here I am.”

“Here we both are.” She raises her glass to his in a short salute to the unenthusiastic and unwilling. 

After taking a swig of his beer, Killian sets his glass back down and turns to Emma with purpose. “It’s not all bad, really. I’ve been trying to find a moment to speak with you all day.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrows raise in curiosity and confusion as she raises her own glass to take another sip of her purple monstrosity. Based on the way her mouth puckers as the alcohol hits her tongue, he thinks she might feel the same way about her beverage.

“Well, you see, I thought I heard you quoting a certain musical earlier…”

Swan immediately groans, her head dropping as if in resignation or defeat. Killian is confident that the only thing keeping her from banging her head on the counter is her folded arms braced against the worn and stained wood. “I was hoping no one heard that.”

“‘This is my husband, we’re from Maine’? I’m impressed by your Sondheim knowledge, Swan, but your timing needs work.”

“I know, I know. It’s… Henry and I have this game, you see, where we try to slip in lyrics without the other knowing. He actually knows a lot, just by virtue of being my kid and practically being raised in theaters. So when I heard Belle, I wasn’t trying to turn it into a joke or something awful like that, it was just… a reflex, I guess.”

“Second nature,” Killian nods in return. “I’m not holding it against you, love, a man just doesn’t expect to hear  _ Assassins _ quotes tossed around willy-nilly.”

“Thanks.” Catching the bartender’s attention, she holds up her glass in the universal sign for ‘more, please’. “For the record, I’m impressed you caught that.  _ Assassins _ is pretty much at the top of my list of shows to see, but not everyone knows about it.” 

“You can blame my brother for that,” Killian chuckles. “After I decided to become a theatre actor, he decided I needed a full history of the genre. Except the tosser knows next to nothing about musicals and can’t sing a note, so it was mostly just him telling me a lot of Sondheim and Andrew Lloyd Webber facts. Which means I know a disproportionate amount about  _ Cats _ and  _ Into the Woods _ .  _ Assassins _ was at least a more enjoyable entry in his so-called education.”

The story at least gets her to laugh, displacing that foul look she’s been wearing for a moment. “Your brother sounds like a handful. I mean, it sounds like he means well, but wow.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Killian grumbles, eliciting another laugh from his companion. He could get used to that sound, given the chance. “But enough about that wanker. What would you say to a game of pool, Swan?”

Her answering grin is acceptance and challenge, all at once. “Oh, you’re on, Jones.”

———

It’s late when Killian finally calls Liam; he’s not rightfully sure how late, a series of beers, and later glasses of rum, blurring his perception of time, but he knows it’s far past a respectable hour. The only saving grace is that his older brother is currently out in Los Angeles, three hours behind Killian’s local time. Perhaps that will do something to make up for the perceived lateness of the hour.

“Hello?” sounds Liam’s voice from the other end of the line, and Killian is relieved to hear that his brother’s voice is the normal kind of tired, not the just-woken-up kind. Killian may be a bit drunk, but he’s not so far gone that he can’t tell the difference.

“Brother!” he practically chirps in response. “I know it’s late, but I promised I’d call, didn’t I?”

The chuckle from the other end of the line is warm, if exhausted. “Aye, that you did. Tell me, Killy, how much have you had to drink? Are you ok to find your way home?”

“Oh, a good bit. I’ll be fine.” Liam definitely can’t see the dismissive wave of Killian’s hand, but that doesn’t stop him in the least, his impulse control and logic severely compromised. “David convinced me to come out. Have I told you about Dave, Liam? Dave’s a good mate.”

“Aye, you have. I might have to have a few words with Dave if this is going to become a regular occurence. It’s after 11, Killian, which is even later for you.”

“Oh, don’t scold Dave. I didn’t even spend most of the night with him, I spent it with Swan! I’ve talked about Swan before, haven’t I, Liam?” Oh, he really ought to have talked about Swan before. It’d be a utter shame if he hadn’t - he just can’t properly remember right now.

“Are you making friends with birds, Killy?” Liam’s voice is amused, but Killian is less so upon hearing his older brother’s response.

“Don’t be daft, Liam,” he all but snaps. “No, Swan is the stage manager. I must have told you about her.”

The voice on the other end of the line hums as if in realization. “Ah, the one you’re so fascinated with?”

Even with his delayed responses, Killian can feel himself blush. “I’m not  _ fascinated _ , Liam,” he explains in what he thinks is a perfectly level and reasoned tone of voice, slightly slurred words be damned. “She’s just a very nice lady. And talented. And lovely too.” The humming noise comes from the other end of the line again, causing Killian to adopt a defensive tone. “I  _ don’t _ have a crush on her Liam, stop that.”

“I never said you did,” Liam says with amusement coloring his voice. Killian can just imagine the placating hand he must be raising to calm his younger brother back down.

“She’s just very good at her job,” Killian tries to explain. “I  _ admire _ her.”

“Of course you do,” Liam replies soothingly. “And I know you don’t have any feelings for her, but just in case, tread carefully, alright? It’s not a particularly good idea to get involved with people you’re working closely with.”

“I will be,” Killian dutifully says, before hastening to add, “But it won’t be necessary, Liam. She’s just a friend.”

“Whatever you say, Killian,” Liam placates. “Call me in the morning when the alcohol wears off, aye? I’ll talk to you later.”

“Aye, brother, tomorrow.” There’s the usual exchange of affections to close out the call, and then Killian’s left to his own thoughts again, and still needing to find his way home.

Liam can say all he wants, but no matter how fascinating Killian finds Emma Swan, it’s nothing more than a platonic interest. Even if she is lovely and interesting and brilliant and  _ absolutely _ someone he could have romantic feelings for.

——— 

It’s such a cliche to say that their interactions at the bar are the beginning of a beautiful friendship, but Emma thinks she and Jones - Killian, she could probably call him now - might be on their way there. Killian is easy to talk to, charming, funny, and apparently willing to participate in ridiculous romantic schemes in service of a friend. The professional part of Emma feels victorious that they apparently cast the perfect man to play their Mr. Darcy; the rest of her is left just wondering how he’s  _ real _ . The man acts like something out of one of Mary Margaret’s awful romantic comedies, and Emma’s not sure what to do about it.

It doesn’t help that he seems especially determined to be a gentleman towards Emma in particular. He already does all the door holding and ‘ladies first’ nonsense, but he’s taken to helping Emma collect all the various and sundry things she lends out from her supply box over the course of a day and bringing her hot chocolate in the mornings. She’s not even sure how he knows about the hot chocolate thing; who knows, maybe she told him herself that night at the bar. Emma does get chatty when she gets tipsy, even if she doesn’t like to admit it. Regardless, he’s even figured out that she likes cinnamon on top, and presents the to-go cups each morning with a smile that is much brighter than Emma is properly prepared to see before noon.

They’re friends now, she supposes. That’s what Emma’s willing to admit to at least. Sure, she can easily see how that friendship could turn into something more if they both let it, but they  _ work _ together. It would be such a bad idea - if not downright disastrous. Friendship is safe; friendship is something they can both handle. There’s absolutely no attraction and no feelings on either side.

Emma only hopes that if she repeats that mantra enough, the words will actually stay true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with it, even after my doom and gloom disclaimer!
> 
> @snidgetsafan is still my beta and still the best, and spent a lot of time letting me fret over the Belle sections. Thanks, babe.
> 
> If you're enjoying this fic, consider leaving kudos, comments, or feedback. I love hearing from you guys, and I'm glad you're excited about this fic!
> 
> Also posted on tumblr - I'm @shireness-says. Come make friends.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 3: Closer to Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still with me after last chapter? Good. 
> 
> Chapter title pulled from "Big Fish: the Musical".

Killian couldn’t tell you when, or why, or how it happens - it just somehow  _ does _ over the month of September. He hadn’t started helping Emma because he fancied her, or because he was looking for some reward or professional favor; he just happens to think Swan is a lovely, impressive woman who deserves to have her life made a little easier. There’s something about seeing an irritated woman at the bar that just does something to his heart, apparently, something that makes him gallant and gentlemanly. So he brings her cups of her favorite hot chocolate and does all he can to keep rehearsals moving so she can go home and see her son. Lately, this means distracting the ever-complaining and unpleasant Zelena Mills, the production’s Caroline Bingley. It’s the least Killian can do, especially if it means making things smoother for Emma. But somewhere between “fancy meeting you here” and now, his desire to make her life easier evolves into a desire to know everything about her life and just maybe share it. Killian Jones is left to suddenly face the facts.

He likes Emma Swan. Like,  _ like  _ likes her, to borrow that juvenile mindset sometimes encouraged by the theater environment.

Really, it’d be hard not to develop a crush on her - Swan, in his humble opinion, is a wonder of a woman. She’s got a talent of exuding an undeniable authority when she needs to while still blending into the background and directing attention elsewhere. Beyond that, she’s possibly the most capable person he knows - seemingly everywhere she’s needed all at once, her head a well-organized file system of every detail of the show, ready to be whipped out to answer questions from the most obvious to the most obscure at any moment. Swan is  _ amazing _ , and more often than not, Killian finds himself just watching her in her element with her mysterious system of legal pads.

(Even if it is entirely reasonable to be impressed by such a woman, as Killian dissects those thoughts, it only becomes more starkly apparent that oh, he’s got it  _ bad _ .)

Liam laughs and laughs at him, of course, when Killian calls in a mild panic to dissect his emotional crisis.

“It’s such a mess,” Killian all but moans in consternation. 

“Oh, you’re telling me,” his brother chuckles, apparently deeply amused by the pickle Killian has found himself in. Which is not helpful. Not in the least.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” he whines, eliciting yet another bark of laughter from Liam.

“I did try to warn you. Unless, of course, you were too drunk to remember that conversation.”

“I wasn’t that drunk,” Killian mutters somewhat petulantly. He remembers that conversation perfectly well, thank you very much, and does remember how Liam advised against him pursuing the Lady Swan. And Killian hears that - agrees, really, that it would be a terrible idea to romantically pursue a coworker - but the heart wants what it wants, and he reserves the right to gripe and whine and play the pitiful victim if he so pleases. “But what am I supposed to  _ do,  _ Liam? I can’t ask her out, right?”

“Far be it from me to tell you what to do, little brother,” Liam replies, continuing before Killian even has a chance to muster the prerequisite correction that’s it’s actually  _ younger _ , “but I’d certainly caution against it. I know that right now you’re in the midst of a fresh new crush, but stop and think about what could happen if you  _ did _ pursue a relationship with this woman, and it ended badly. You’re the one who’s carried on and on about how important cast dynamics are in a live theatre show; you’ll have to consider the worst case scenario and how that dynamic could be affected in that case.” After a pause for thought, Liam chuckles, some new amusement apparently striking. “You know, you haven’t even told me if the lady in question feels the same. For all I know, this conversation is entirely pointless and she’s only been standing the sight of you out of some professional civility.”

“Oh, lay off, you arse,” Killian all but snaps. “I’m trying to get some advice - something you’ve always claimed to be your job as ‘big brother’, mind you - and you’re treating this all like some big joke. I don’t even know why I called —”

“Calm down, Killy,” Liam interrupts in a more soothing tone. “I didn’t mean to hurt you with my teasing. Honestly, I’m not sure what advice I can give, except to make sure you know exactly what you’re contemplating before you jump right in. Only your own heart can tell you whether this is a risk worth taking.”

It’s not the advice Killian was hoping for, if he’s being very honest. When all is said and done, he knows his brother is right - this is a matter only he can decide upon. But Killian is stumped, and he had really truly hoped that Liam would swoop in with words of wisdom to make everything make sense and tell Killian what would be the smart thing to do - what he  _ should _ do. 

“I know,” he eventually sighs in mild defeat. “Doesn’t mean I couldn’t try to get you to fix it.”

“Ah, well, it was an excellent effort. After all, I  _ do _ know everything, as you’re well aware.”

“Alright, that’s quite enough,” Killian affectionately grumbles. “I’ll talk to you later, you old bastard.”

“Aye, talk later. And let me know what happens with the lady!”

———

Walking into the theater feels like coming home, regardless of the fact that Emma’s never worked from this location before. She always gets this feeling whenever she walks into a new space - that feeling of belonging, of  _ rightness _ that she’s only ever felt with Henry. 

Emma’s not alone in the space by any means, faint shouts and harsh noises of tools echoing through the space, but the cast isn’t here, which provides its own kind of peace. She loves her cast, she really does - well, for the most part, certain supporting actresses being a notable exception- but actors bring their own variety of chaos, one born of high-strung emotions and everyone giving everything all the time. It’s easier to appreciate the way the show is physically coming together without them present, see the beauty of the set’s construction for what it is without the distraction of loud voices and louder personalities. It’s still a bit of a scattered mess right now - a grand staircase she knows will be used in the Netherfield and Pemberley sets contrasting sharply with a pair of fake hedges in the process of being painted to created the illusion of receding depth - but Emma’s been around this process long enough on all sides to see the potential, to know that even if things still look rough, in truth, they’re down to just the details.

“I really think it’s going to be something,” comes a soft-spoken voice from her side, and Emma startles out of her thoughts, turning to see Merlin to her right. “Sorry,” he chuckles, “I suppose I should have recognized the look of someone who’s taking all of this in.”

Emma waves his apology off. In truth, she  _ had _ been a bit lost in the visions in her head of how the show would look opening night with everything perfected, but she’ll have time for daydreaming later. There’s more important things to think about - namely, the production meeting she’d been called to the theatre for. Things have been going well on the techie front - Emma’s been in contact with everyone often enough to know that everything is on track - like with the set, the framework and bulk of the major work is done, everything now down to details.

“I love this part,” she says quietly, flashing a quick smile at Merlin. “Right now, when you can see everything really start to come together… I don’t know, it’s like I can really start to put the pieces together in my mind and see all the potential.” It’s not exactly what she means - she can see the potential everyday, watching her cast - but seeing things now makes it feel real and impending and inevitable.

“I know what you mean,” the director murmurs back, eyes fixed on the half-completed set, before turning back to Emma with a grin. “Make sure you enjoy it while it lasts, the peace ends next week.”

_ Next week _ , Emma contemplates as Merlin walks away to set up their meeting on what remains of the stage. Consciously, she knows that the cast is moving out of the rehearsal space and into the theater next Wednesday, but the reality of that slams into her all of a sudden. The steamroller that is this show keeps rolling forward, gathering momentum, and even through Emma knows they’re perfectly on schedule, it’s still surprising, how fast time is moving. It’ll be opening night before she knows it.

It’s a nice change, being able to devote her entire attention to the technical crew. All the designers have been around, stopping by rehearsals at various points in the process to see what they’ve got to work with and around, with Emma acting as a communication hub of sorts between them all. However, at rehearsals, there’s always twenty other things she needs to worry about, most of those caused by her cast. It’s a welcome change to be able to focus on the production crew without any interruption.

Things go as well as anticipated - everyone’s on track, as Emma already knew, so this is more of a check in, a chance to double check in person that their coordination has been followed and paid off. As always, the meeting only creates more for Emma to do - Robin had presented her with a list of all kinds of bulbs and gels that still need ordering that she’ll need to double check the budget for, and she needs to schedule time for Kristoff and the orchestra to meet next month and confirm when Robin, Ms. Blue, and select cast members can meet next week to check how the costumes will look under the lights - but that’s not unexpected. Emma’s sitting in the audience, creating yet another list of things that need doing and checking - the top of which is confirming her stage crew - when the seat next to her creaks and shifts. A quick glance reveals the culprit to be Robin, clearly making himself comfortable as he props his feet on the row in front of them.

“Don’t get used to that,” Emma mutters, absent-mindedly nodding towards the man’s boots where they’re propped on blue velvet. When it’s just the two of them, she can let it slide, but she really doesn’t need the house manager on her ass - or worse, cast members seeing him at a later date and getting ideas.

Robin only chuckles in response, leaning over to see what Emma’s currently meticulously listing out. “‘Finalize crew’?” he reads off. “Who are you thinking of?”

“I’ve already got Dorothy Gale and Mulan Fa for deputy stage managers, and they’ve given me a shortlist of people they’ve worked with before and recommend. Still looking for a deck captain, though, if you’ve got any recommendations. Had a guy lined up, but he took another job.”

Robin crosses his arms and furrows his brow in thought, considering the question. “It’s been a few years, and I don’t know what he’s up to now,” he cautions, “but first guy that comes to mind is Will Scarlet. He can be kind of an ass, but he’s good at thinking on his feet and finding unconventional solutions when you need them. Back in the day, I’d trust him to do just about any errand or favor I needed, because I knew that one way or another, he’d get it done.”

Emma’s never worked with the man before - or heard of him, for that matter - but Robin’s opinion means a lot, both personally and in this business in general. Plus, it sounds like Will Scarlet might have the mindset she’s looking for in her deck captain - not afraid to do whatever is needed to keep the show moving forward, no matter how outside the box those methods are.

“His background actually reminds me of yours a bit,” Robin is saying, which sounds like only another reason to give the man a call. “He’s done a little bit of everything just for the sake of learning it, though he was mostly doing stage crew when I knew him. I could give him a call tonight, if you like, see if he’s interested. I know I’ve got his number around here somewhere.”

“I’d appreciate that, thanks. If he seems interested, let me know, and I’ll give him a call myself tomorrow.” That’s one thing off her list at least. “Do you have any lighting guys I need to talk with and get contracts for?”

Sighing heavily, Robin nods. “Yeah, you’ll have to talk to the followspot operator, if I ever find one.” He chuckles before continuing. “I might need to borrow one of those legal pads and make my own to-do list.”

“And mess up my careful system? Never,” Emma teases right back. “Do you have a short list of candidates, at least?”

“No,” groans Robin, dropping his head back. “I mean, my four year old has decided that he’s the man for the job, but that won’t work for obvious reasons. Labor laws and whatnot.”

Emma chuckles in response, flashes of Henry at that age flitting through her mind. “Oh, I remember that stage. Have fun with that.”

“Yeah, I know. The thing is, he’s got the right instincts and reflexes for it, courtesy of the nature/nurture thing, he’s just not tall enough or strong enough to operate the lantern yet.” He grins roguishly before standing up, as if to leave. “Don’t worry, I’ve got plans for him yet.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Emma laughs in return. 

“Anything I can grab for you before I head out? I need to make a couple calls about supplies before I pick Roland up from pre-K.”

“Go,” she waves him off. “I just want to walk a few things here, nothing I can’t do on my own. Let me know about Will Scarlet if you talk to him later.”

“Will do.” Robin waves a jaunty farewell, and then Emma’s left to her own thoughts again.

Fresh off the production meeting, she can picture in vibrant technicolor how everything is going to look. Merlin had been right, earlier; this production was really going to be something. Climbing over set pieces, examining the booth, hunting down each dressing room to assign space to everyone, Emma feels a routine beginning to form, one in which this theatre is her domain, and where she’s responsible for everything that happens in it.

An hour and a half later, Emma finally leaves to return home, where undoubtedly Henry is waiting (and hopefully working on his homework), having made excellent progress on her to-do list and with a new confidence in the feat they’re all trying to undertake.

It’s going to be  _ something _ .

———

Of course, that confidence can only last so long. By the time rehearsals finally permanently shift to the theater a week later, a wide variety of problems have arisen, all of which Emma’s left to deal with and all of which leave her with a god-awful headache.

It had been with no small amount of relief that Emma had offered employment as deck captain to one Will Scarlet on Robin’s recommendation, but she’s not sure after meeting him that the man isn’t contributing to the headache. Will Scarlet has proved to be quick on the uptake and certainly skilled at his job, but he’s a chatterbox, too, with a deep love for sarcasm that Emma doesn’t always have the time, energy, or brainpower to process. Thankfully, whatever past history he and Robin share seems to make the former defer to the latter, and a well-placed look of disapproval from the older lighting designer does wonders to shut Scarlet up and preserve Emma’s peace of mind.

Of course, the odd hours aren’t helping either. The standard 9:30 to 4:30 rehearsal schedule is still in place, granting Emma one facet of much-needed routine. There’s still so much work to be done, however, much of which can’t be done with the cast still milling about, so Emma ends up staying late most evenings with Scarlet and her deputy stage managers, Mulan and Dorothy, setting positions for each set piece, usually only to adjust them the very next day. The file box is carrying a lot more now: five colors of spike tape and a roll of glow tape and more small tab post-its than any other person who doesn’t need to mark individual light cues should ever need, as well as all the myriad other things the cast need and somehow never remember to bring for themselves. The worst part of all of this is that Emma barely sees her kid anymore - sure, she sees him off to school in the morning, and sure, he comes by after school for a few hours before Elsa takes him home, but that’s so little time in the day, and Emma worries about how much she’s missing. While right now Henry is ecstatic to come to the theater and see everything that’s going on, seeming to take his mother’s weird schedule in stride, will he one day come to resent the time she spent at the theater instead of helping him with his homework or spending time with him? It’s a massive burden placed on her shoulders, only alleviated by hugging her kid as tightly as she can when they do see one another.

The greatest stress, however, comes from dealing with the actors. As always. God, when isn’t that the biggest stress in her life? In reality, she should just say actor, singular. Most of her cast, while constantly creating or stumbling across new problems like it’s some kind of competition, are generally pleasant and respectful and enthusiastic about the production they’re undertaking. It’s just one actor that’s the problem - Zelena Mills.  _ Always _ Zelena Mills. While Miss Mills was hired for embodying exactly the traits they were seeking for their envisioned Caroline Bingley, she’s proved to be a constant pain in everyone’s neck. Emma prides herself on being a consummate professional, regardless of her personal feelings about her cast and their inevitable drama, but there’s just something about that woman that sets her teeth on edge and tests her patience more than usual. Zelena’s latest kick has been fancying herself some kind of genius director, questioning Merlin’s direction at every turn and playing Caroline larger and larger, despite specific instructions to the contrary. She’s already been talked to, both by Emma and by Merlin, but those conversations brought only temporary improvement. Personally, Emma thinks Merlin is being too nice; left up to her, Zelena would be long gone. The headache of dealing with her is not nearly worth the results she’s displaying. Emma has a hard time believing there isn’t anyone else out there who could do the job, even if they are creeping closer and closer to previews and then opening night. But Merlin keeps carrying on about potential, and how he thinks she can really add something to their interpretation of the work. It’s his show, but God, Emma wishes he would just say enough is enough.

Jones’ efforts to ease her load don’t go unnoticed, a gesture Emma appreciates. Unfortunately, there’s only so much he can do, most of which involves attempting to direct people’s questions elsewhere or answer them himself when he can. He even attempts to engage Zelena sometimes, though those efforts are even less successful - every time he tries to calmly remind the redhead of why Merlin’s direction makes sense or why particular decisions are made, she just fixes him with an impatient, condescending look, as if he’s the most simple creature Zelena has ever had the displeasure of interacting with. Frankly, Emma isn’t sure how Killian can stand it - she’s about ready to throttle Zelena just  _ witnessing _ that glare, and she’s sure it’s infinitely worse on the receiving end. Despite the fact that his efforts aren’t particularly working, Emma’s still touched that he’s trying to lighten her load - something she’s not remotely used to.

In the meantime, Emma’s left with the headache from hell, running around like a madwoman trying to address questions from the cast (most of them inane) while trying to fix the positioning of the set, all the while trying to keep an eye out for Henry. He’s supposed to arrive from school at any minute now, and Emma vainly hopes she’ll be able to carve out a few minutes with her son before Elsa comes to pick him up. 

At this rate, though, with all the things she’s having to address? To borrow a phrase from Jones,  _ not bloody likely _ .

———-

Technically, Killian could go home. It’s just past five now, and rehearsal had let out for the day at 4:30. He could leave, go back to his apartment for a beer and a slice, have a relaxing night in.

But he’s not. Killian could play dumb about why he’s still here at the theater, but honestly, what would it accomplish? Emma’s still here, still trying to put out various proverbial fires, so Killian stays too, in a vain hope that he can help in some way.

God, he’s got it bad.

It was probably inevitable that she’d spot him, even through her many distractions - he’s not exactly subtle, hanging out where he has no need to be. Still, it’s a little comical, the way she stops abruptly upon noticing his unexpected presence, brow crinkled in confusion.

“What are you still doing here?” she asks, her tone brisk but puzzled.

That’s an excellent question, because Killian knows damn well he doesn’t have any real excuse for sticking around. “Uh, well, you know, just… getting a feel for the space,” he stumbles out, barely resisting the urge to tack on “or something” to the end of his sentence. It’s such a blatant, obvious lie, and Emma knows it too, if the unimpressed look on her face is anything to go by.

“Sure, of course,” she deadpans. “Well, I’m having Scarlet fly in one of the suspended pieces in a bit, so maybe try to avoid the stage while you’re getting a feel for the space.” Emma doesn’t make finger quotes around her last words, but Killian can sense them there all the same.

“Aye, I think I can manage that,” he responds, starting to beat a sheepish retreat. He’s made enough of a fool of himself for one day, most likely. “Let me know if you need anything else of me,” he adds at the last minute, more on instinct than logic.

Oddly, however, it seems to be those thrown-away words that most capture her attention. “I don’t suppose you’d want to keep my kid company,” Emma tosses back, tone teasing but eyes serious.

It’s the last thing Killian expects her to say, and his face must show it, because she hurries to backtrack and brush her previous words away. “You don’t have to, obviously, I was mostly kidding —”

“I’d be happy to, Swan,” Killian interrupts, stopping her stream of unnecessary protests. “Anything to help you. That is, of course, if you’re sure.” He carefully offers an out at the end. Emma needn’t worry about retracting her request on account of his own non-existent hesitance, but he imagines it must be a nerve-wracking thing to entrust your child into someone else’s care - especially someone you don’t know particularly well outside of a professional setting - and it would be bad form not to offer her the opportunity to change her mind.

Emma studies him carefully for a few moments, that adorable little crease in her brow deepening as she seemingly sizes him up, before her body abruptly releases its tension and she nods. “Yeah. I mean, he’s ten, so it’s not like you need to watch him too closely or anything, but he’s been hanging out waiting for me to get a break for the last forty minutes, and I figure you’ll be more entertaining than just sitting around twiddling his thumbs or - god forbid -  _ homework _ . C’mon, I’ll take you over there now.”

Killian is left to mutely follow behind as Emma sets off for the other side of the theater at a brisk pace, presumedly to wherever her son is camped out. Sure enough, there in the back corner of the back row is a dark haired boy (Harry? Henry? Harrison? Killian really is terrible at names), staring at his gaming device with eyebrows furrowed in exactly the way Emma’s do. In Killian’s limited experience, interrupting kids from their video games never ends well, and he almost tells Emma to just forget it, there’s no need to bother the boy, but his head has already popped up like a prairie dog at the sound of their approach.

“Hey, kid,” Emma says warmly, ruffling the boy’s hair as he pulls a face and half-heartedly tries to dodge her hand. “How’s it going? What are you up to?”

“Nothing much,” the lad shrugs, “just waiting for you and playing Knight Quest. Are we going to get dinner soon?”

“I hope so, kid,” she replies ruefully. “There’s a lot more to get done than I’d like, but I’m hoping I can take a break soon. In the meantime, I brought a friend over for you to meet. This is Killian Jones, he’s playing Darcy. Killian, this is my son Henry.”

Ignoring the passing feeling of victory at halfway remembering the boy’s name, Killian sticks out a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, lad.”

Henry, for his part, looks more excited about this introduction than Killian had anticipated of a pre-teen with electronic distractions. “That’s so cool!” he enthuses, shaking Killian’s hand with all the enthusiasm a ten-year-old can muster. “So that means you’re the male lead, right? Is there a lot you have to memorize? I mean, I know usually the leads have a ton of lines, but Mr. Darcy never talks a lot in the movies. Oh! Do you have costumes yet? I always come in at the end of rehearsals so I never get to see much. I mean, we’re coming up on previews pretty quick, so I hope you have costumes, but I don’t know, maybe everything’s coming together at the last minute.” Henry pauses for breath finally, leaving Killian to try and stifle his smile at the boy’s extreme enthusiasm. 

“Jeez, kid, calm down for a moment, give Killian a chance to respond,” Emma mutters in a vain attempt to rein in her son.

“It’s fine, Swan,” Killian tries to reassure her. There’s nothing wrong with the boy’s curiosity, even if it is taking a bit of brainpower to remember everything Henry asked. “You’re right, there’s a bit less talking than there might usually be for a leading male role, but I’ve got a lot of great singing parts, which kind of makes up for it. And I do have several costumes already, you’re right. Maybe I could show you those, if your mum is ok with it?”

The last words are directed at Emma, accompanied by a questioning raise of his eyebrow. Killian suspects she won’t take any issue with his proposed plan; it’ll keep the lad occupied, and they’ll still be in the theater when she’s finished with her work and ready to take Henry to dinner. It doesn’t hurt, either, that Henry is currently fixing his mother with a pleading puppy-eyed look.

“Sure, why not,” Emma laughs. “I’ll come find you when I’m ready to go. Be good, alright? Try not to overwhelm the poor man with questions, I still need him for the show.”

“Thanks, Mom!” Henry chirps, already practically skipping across the aisles and towards the door that leads backstage, leaving Killian to try and catch up. Tossing a last reassuring smile Emma’s way, he turns and jogs after Henry, only catching up at the backstage door, where Henry is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation.

“Calm down, lad,” Killian laughs. “I promise, the costumes are hanging up in my dressing room, they’re not going anywhere.”

Henry calms a bit at his words, muttering a quick “Sorry” that strongly reminds Killian of the boy’s mother. “I just get really excited about this stuff,” he tries to explain. “I’ll try not to ask so many questions.”

Compared to Henry’s previously overflowing enthusiasm, this doesn’t sit well with Killian. The lad is just excited, and he truly doesn’t mind fielding any questions Henry may have. “It’s really alright, lad,” he tries to explain. “I don’t mind answering them.”

To Killian’s relief, that permission perks Henry right back up again as they slip through the backstage door and into the maze of hallways, dressing rooms and storage. “Oh good. I want to know  _ everything _ ,” Henry tells Killian very seriously. “Mom shows me a lot, but I mostly get the techie side from her, and I want to know everything about the acting side too.”

“Do you want to be an actor then?” Henry doesn’t seem the type, but then again, Killian never did either, and here he is. 

Henry scoffs. “No, of course not. No offense,” he offers in consolation. Killian good naturedly waves off Henry’s words, smiling warmly in a way he hopes encourages the boy to continue. “No, I’m going to be a playwright when I grow up. That’s why I was asking about your part, I want to know what makes for a good role.”

It’s not at all what Killian was expecting to hear, but he nods seriously, all the same. “That makes sense. I take it you like to write then?” They’re nearly to his dressing room now, the door just up ahead, but Killian wants to learn all he can about the lad before his attention is inevitably seized by the distraction of costumes.

Henry nods excitedly. “Yeah! I mean, I don’t think I’m that good yet, but I keep doing it. Mom says the most important part is practicing anyways. And I’ve got lots of ideas! Like I want to write a show with Captain Hook as the hero. I think it would be interesting. Do you think so?”

“I think that sounds like a great idea. You’ll have to let me know when you finish, maybe I’ll try out for a part.” And, considering how much Henry is like his mother, Killian has no doubt he’ll do it one day. With his determination, it’s just a matter of time.

“Thanks,” Henry says, turning a bit pink. Luckily, they’ve reached Killian’s dressing room, so there’s plenty to distract. “Oh cool! This is all yours? Oh! Are those the costumes?” And just like that, Killian is swept back into answering Henry’s questions - a pattern he’d be happy to continue for as long as Swan allows.

There are worse ways to spend an evening.

———

Robin looks like he’s barely holding in his laughter when she returns back to where they’d camped out, lips pressed together in an attempt to smother the smile that stubbornly turns up the corners of his mouth.

“Don’t you even start,” Emma warns. “You think the four year old questions are bad, wait until he moves past the ‘why?’ phase and into demanding to know how everything works.”

“Oh,  I’m not laughing about that,” Robin chuckles, “though Henry is very enthusiastic on that front. No, I was laughing at you and Jones.” After another moment, he quickly amends his statement. “Well, mostly Jones.”

Emma thinks she knows where this is going, and groans at the very prospect. “Don’t even start on that either.”

“Too late!” Robin cheerfully replies, reminding Emma more of Ruby than she’s really comfortable with. “You know he’s absolutely smitten with you.”

“I don’t  _ know _ that,” Emma tries to hedge, but Robin only fixes her with an amused look.

“Ok,  _ you _ don’t know that, but the rest of us do,” he replies. “Are you going to do anything about it?”

“No,” Emma scoffs. It’s clearly not the answer Robin wants, based on the look he gives her. “We work together!” she tries to protest. “It’d be a terrible idea!”

“Maybe that’s the case, but anyone can tell that Jones has feelings for you, just watching you two interact. You should probably figure out what you want to do about that.”

It’s sage advice. But the problem is that Emma doesn’t really know what she wants to do about it. Killian is a great guy, and under different circumstances, she might be more open to his feelings. But the way things are, Emma has a lot riding on this show. It could be a make-or-break moment in her career, depending on how the production comes together, and she’s not willing to risk that in any way - especially  not by becoming involved with a coworker. Her own feelings - whatever they might be - don’t matter.

She just hopes, for all their sakes, that Killian doesn’t do anything to alter their status quo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun story: this and next week's chapter were originally supposed to be just one chapter together, but the Captain Cobra and Emma & Robin stuff completely got away from me. In a good way, I think. I hope you liked it!
> 
> Thanks, as always, to the best beta ever, @snidgetsafan. Thanks for making the time for me on top of all your stuff for school!
> 
> Also posted on tumblr - I'm @shireness-says. Come by, make friends, I live for notes.
> 
> If you liked this chapter, consider leaving kudos, comments, or feedback - I love hearing from you guys!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 4: Stick to the Status Quo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title pulled from High School Musical, because my excellent beta @snidgetsafan (thanks as always!) suggested it and it was a little too perfect to pass up. It's performed by schools across the nation every year; I say it counts.
> 
> I haven't done so lately, so I think this is a good time to remind people that my theater experience is all on the community theater level, not the professional level. Things that happen in this chapter or in this fic may or may not be realistic, leaning towards the latter. I hope you enjoy it anyways as a lovingly crafted piece of fiction.

Tuesday starts alright (at least as much as Tuesday mornings ever do). As everyone involved in the production has fallen into a new routine at the theater, Emma’s stress level has dropped significantly. The creases are slowly being ironed out on the tech side, the cast is fully off-book, the choreography looks fantastic, and she had even managed to get home in time to hang out with Henry for a little bit before his bedtime. Not bad for a Monday - and hopefully a pattern that sets the tone of the rest of the week. 

Henry does trip her up a little at breakfast. It’s early still, but Emma had wanted to make breakfast for once - sort of as a “thanks for being a great and patient kid” gesture, since she knows it’s been a hectic few weeks and not likely to get any better. Nothing special, but Henry really loves the pancakes from the box, and she cooks up a few slices of bacon to go with. Unsurprisingly for a boy his age, Henry falls upon the meal like he hasn’t eaten in a week. Emma’s not complaining; it means he’ll be sent off to school with a hearty breakfast instead of the usual Pop-Tarts or toaster waffles, and they’ve never been much for leftovers.

Breakfast conversation (or at least what passes for it with a halfway awake ten-year-old) is happy, if predictable - talk about upcoming tests and projects, how his friends are doing and the like - before Henry turns the conversation back around on her.

“So, is it going better?” he asks. The words are seemingly normal, even casual, but something is setting off Emma’s mom alarms all the same.

“Yeah, we’re all settling into a routine. Still on schedule,” she replies. “Any particular reason you’re asking?”

“No, no, just… making conversation,” Henry hurries to answer. After a pause to shovel more pancakes into his mouth, he continues his inquiries in a almost painfully casual tone of voice. “So… have you seen a lot of Killian lately?”

Emma casts her son a suspicious look, grabbing the plate of bacon before answering his question. “I see him every day at rehearsals, but not any more than the rest of the cast. Why, should I have?”

Ok, that last part isn’t strictly true. Killian has a way of showing up when she least expects him to, often to offer his assistance on things he doesn’t strictly need to concern himself with. But Henry doesn’t need to know that. Hell,  _ Emma _ doesn’t know how she feels about that - no need to drag her kid into that.

“Oh, no, definitely not,” Henry hurries to add in a move directly stolen from Mary Margaret. “Just, you know, I had a great time hanging out with him the past couple of days. He’s a  _ really _ nice guy.”

It’s the emphasis that really drives home Henry’s intentions, and Emma groans loudly when she realizes. “Aw, kid, not you too.”

“I’m just saying!” Henry protests, loudly and enthusiastically. “He’s super nice, and he totally has a thing for you.”

“How do you even know that?” Emma demands.

Henry just shrugs in return. “Robin says so.”

That elicits another groan from Emma. God, this is not the conversation she wanted to be having with her kid this morning. “When were you even hanging out with Robin? And don’t get me started about how you two are apparently gossiping like a pair of sorority girls.”

“We were not!” Henry tosses back, affronted at the mere suggestion. “And you were doing something else. Talking with Scarlet, maybe? I don’t know. Robin’s a cool guy, he’s teaching me about the light board. And he says Jones is  _ totally _ smitten with you.”

“Well Robin needs to watch his fat mouth,” Emma grumbles petulantly.

“Would it be so bad?” Henry says, switching gears to that pouting routine Emma is usually weak for. “I’m a big kid now, you know, you don’t need to drop everything for me anymore.”

“I’ll  _ always _ drop everything for you,” Emma promises solemnly, choosing to ignore Henry’s point.

In return, her son just rolls his eyes. “Yeah yeah, I know. Super-Mom or whatever. I’m just saying… if you wanted to go out and have a life… I’d be fine with it.”

That’s her kid - trying to look out for his mom, even when she doesn’t ask for it. “I’ll keep that in mind, kid.”

Emma thinks the subject has been exhausted, but with a mischievous smirk, Henry lobs one more verbal missile. “And if you are going to get out there on the dating scene… I  _ do _ really like Killian.”

Emma affectionately sticks her tongue out at her son in retaliation before shoving the bacon plate back under his nose. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Eat your breakfast.”

The thing is, early morning heart-to-hearts over pancakes have a way of lingering, and even if Emma had brushed off Henry’s prodding at the time, she finds herself still thinking about those words when she arrives at rehearsal. Her son is a great kid to be so concerned about her and her social life, but it’s not like she’s  _ lonely _ or something. Honestly, she doesn’t have the time; she’s got great working relationships and a great kid and some pretty great friends (even if Mary Margaret is concerningly optimistic and Ruby can sometimes drive her nuts). Sure, she hasn’t really been in a relationship since Henry was born - a few flings on the weekends Henry was with Neal, a smattering of dates that never went further - but she’s not desperate for a man in her life. Emma’s got everything she needs, just the way things are now. 

Of course, that doesn’t stop her from thinking dangerous and romantic things when Jones shows up with her daily hot chocolate and a smile. She may not  _ need _ anyone, it’s true, but maybe Henry has a point. It could be nice, to actually be involved in an adult relationship. Killian really is a nice guy, handsome to boot, and, as pointed out by far too many people in her life, clearly besotted with Emma. When Killian grins at her as she takes that first marvelous sip from the cheap to-go cup, Emma finds herself thinking:  _ would it really be that bad _ ?

The answer, of course, is yes. The fact still remains that they work together. If Emma has one hard and fast rule for her non-existent love life, it’s not to mix business with pleasure - regardless of Jones’ feelings, regardless of Henry and Robin’s less-than-subtle hints (and God forbid Ruby or Mary Margaret catch wind of those conversations), and  _ definitely _ regardless of any attraction Emma may or may not feel towards the man (because honestly, the more time she spends in his company, the more she’s moving away from  _ no _ and towards  _ yes, absolutely yes _ ). So, despite everyone’s wishful thinking on that matter, the answer is still that it would be an awful idea.

(It won’t stop her from thinking about it, though.)

Thanks to that breakfast conversation with Henry, the morning isn’t going at  _ all _ the way Emma had planned. But still, it’s got all the potential to be a good one all the same.

Of course, that all goes to shit by noon. Zelena has remained a problem, one Emma has known for a couple of weeks now that they’ll have to deal with, but Emma had been hoping she’d restrain herself to the status of a nuisance instead of actively working against the interests of the production. However, luck seems to have deserted them in that regard. Emma is consistently confused by the amount of criticism that Zelena is able to offer, considering the size of her part. Caroline Bingley is certainly an important role, but it’s not a sizable one - really only a few scenes and portions of two songs. And yet, the redhead has something negative to say about seemingly every moment of it. The best Emma can figure is that Zelena must have greatly inflated the role in her head, to the point that she’s decided that she knows best, and everyone else will think the same way.

“She’s a large character, darling,” Zelena is telling Merlin in that condescending voice she’s perfected. “I’m only doing what best suits the script.”

“Actually, I’ve got the same script as you do, and there’s hardly any direction for Caroline,” Merlin tells her yet again, a tired argument by this point. “Miss Bingley, while we all think her efforts and motives are a bit cartoonish, is all about the subtle dig, hiding her bite behind impeccable manners and passive aggression. Like I’ve told you before, I need you to tone all of your reactions down unless I specifically direct you otherwise. You’re wildly overacting.”

It’s only then that things become more heated, Zelena huffing dramatically as her voice reaches new piercing pitches. “Well any director worth his salt, one with a little more  _ experience _ , would  _ clearly _ understand my acting decisions, and see that they’re  _ superior choices  _ for the good of the production.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Merlin replies agreeably enough, apparently still trying not to engage beyond what is strictly necessary or stoop to her level of unprofessionalism. “However, as long as you’re part of this production, we’ll be doing things my way.”

The rest of the room is dead quiet as Zelena makes more and more of a scene. Most expressions vary from shocked to irritated to slightly scared on some of the younger cast members, though Emma spots an amused glint in Killian’s eye as their gazes meet. Honestly, he probably has the right idea; view this whole display as the ridiculous spectacle it is, instead of turning it into an even larger drama. Back at the proverbial center stage of the unfolding drama, Emma can see Zelena drawing herself up to a haughty stance, clearly preparing to deliver what she thinks will be a damning blow. 

“Any other inexperienced director would appreciate my  _ generous _ contributions. Frankly, your blatant disregard for my superior understanding of the character you hired me to inhabit makes me think you  _ want _ this production to fail. Well, I won’t be around to see it.” Zelena dramatically flings her prop into the wings, a well-made ladies’ fan that Emma is concerned won’t stand up to being thrown. Hopefully Scarlet is around to catch it. “You can consider this my resignation! Rest assured, everyone  _ will  _ know about how poorly you’re directing this.” Zelena begins to stalk off the stage to her (now former) dressing room, before dramatically turning back to add a last word. “You’ll never find  _ anyone _ to replace me with even a quarter of my  _ raw talent _ !”

And in a final twirl of fabric, Zelena Mills exits their stage forever. Good fucking riddance.

Of course, that relief lasts for less than a minute before Emma remembers that  _ holy shit, they’re weeks out from previews and one of their major cast members just quit _ .

Faintly through the blood rushing in her ears she can hear Merlin dismissing everyone for an early and extended lunch break, but Emma’s far too focused on the quickly intruding panic to process much else. As everyone else disperses, Emma all but collapses into one of the velvet-covered theatre seats. God, this could be the end of it all. Zelena is undeniably a pain in the ass, but she wasn’t underselling how difficult it would be to replace her on such short notice. Not to mention, the publicity… if Emma knows anything about Zelena, it’s that she won’t be making a quiet exit. No, Miss Mills’ style tends more towards the dramatic, towards making the biggest splash, and Emma won’t be at all surprised if she sees their production’s misfortune plastered across several websites and magazines by the end of the week. Not to mention how opening night creeps closer and closer, and their Thanksgiving Parade appearance before that… The more Emma thinks about any facet of this fiasco, the more she realizes that this is an absolute nightmare from every angle - in terms of time, publicity, practicality, and everything else.

Oh god, what are they going to do?

———

This morning’s rehearsal has certainly been…  _ eventful _ , Killian reflects, watching Zelena make her dramatic exit. He can’t honestly say that he’s sorry to see the woman leave; in fact, he thinks it’s about time. Every day spent dealing with that woman was a Production in its own right, one that distracted from the hard work necessary to put together the  _ real _ production they were all hired to create. Sure, Zelena’s departure might create some stress and possibly some delays in the short term, but Killian is confident that Merlin and Emma will lead them through it.  _ Especially _ Emma.

The thing is, he’s not sure that Emma is quite as confident in that as he is. It takes a few minutes to find her after Zelena’s dramatic exit, distracted by the event and the ensuing rumble of brewing gossip, but when he does, Emma’s face is white as a sheet and she’s collapsed into a seat on a side aisle, panic written plainly across her face. At this point, crossing the room to join her is an irrepressible compulsion. Since admitting to himself his feelings for Emma, Killian hasn’t even tried to curb his impulse to assist her in any way she allows.

She clearly hasn’t noticed him, eyes glazed over with a million racing thoughts. She does, though, when Killian less-than-subtly throws himself into the neighboring chair, effectively shaking half the row and snapping Emma out of her reverie. He means to say something clever, something witty and funny, but seeing her still-anxious expression, Killian takes slight pity on her, offering a reassurance instead.

“It’s going to be alright, you know,” he tells her, injecting his voice with every ounce of confidence he feels.

Emma snaps her head around to meet his eyes, her incredulity apparent for all to see. “Is it? ‘Cus it sure doesn’t feel that way.”

“Of course,” he shrugs, calm as a quiet sea. “I’ve yet to see you fail.”

It’s meant to be reassuring, to give Swan her own boost of confidence, but instead it only seems to discourage her further. “Yeah, well, stick around,” she mutters gloomily.

“Oh come on Swan, we’ll manage. It’s not so bad.” That’s not strictly true, but Killian really doesn’t think this roadblock will be a death knell to the entire enterprise. At this point, he’s willing to say just about anything to pull Emma out of her bleak outlook on the whole affair.

Though he certainly achieves his goal of dispelling Emma’s blind panic, she instead whirls towards him in sudden anger over his latest words. “Yeah? Well, I’m stuck having to find a way to solve a major problem in a matter of days before it seriously sets us back, so I’m sorry if I don’t share your weird laissez-faire attitude about the whole thing.  _ You _ might not be affected, but  _ I _ sure as hell am, and  _ I’m _ going to have to deal with the fallout!”

It’s quite the reaction - more of an explosion, really. Killian is just glad most people have already filed back to their dressing rooms or out to lunch, minimizing the witnesses to Emma’s outburst and the embarrassment she’ll likely feel later. He can’t resist raising a questioning eyebrow at her comments, however; Emma’s suggestion that Killian wouldn’t be affected by the sudden cast upheaval is especially ridiculous, considering his status as a major actor in the production.

Emma seems to process her words at the same time, letting forth a loud groan and dropping her head into her hands.  “And now I’m an asshole too, on top of the stress.” Turning her head to look at him, she props her face on one hand, features squashed and distorted by the pressure of her palm. “Do you ever get so caught up in your own problems that you stop thinking about anyone else?”

Killian chuckles drily. “I think that’s just a human thing, love.” He probably shouldn’t have added the endearment, but Emma’s far too distracted by the present circumstances to notice or care.

“Yeah, probably. Still, sorry. I know you have to deal with this too.”

“It’s quite alright, Swan, you’re already forgiven. I understand, anyways - we’re all going to have to deal with this, but you’re the one that takes much of the logistical burden of replacing her.”

“God, don’t remind me,” she groans, face again hidden by her hands. “I just need two minutes to just… not think about this. Ok? Just… don’t remind me for two minutes, and then I will haul myself out of this deceptively uncomfortable chair and go talk to Merlin and attempt not to show the meltdown that’s happening inside. Or, at least, make it a very professional-looking external meltdown.”

Conversation dissolves into a long silence, but Killian can still hear Emma’s rapid breaths. Despite any claims she might make to the contrary, mere avoidance of the topic isn’t doing much to calm her down - just allowing her to retreat into her brain, where he’s sure a full replay of the incident is lurking with a million imagined potential outcomes. Quickly, he searches for something - anything - to distract her with, before settling on an unexpected sight happening just inside the wings, barely visible from their vantage point down in the audience.

“I think I’m hallucinating, Swan. I must be. The stress of it all has finally gotten to me and I’m having a mental breakdown,” he declares, trying to be as deadpan as possible in an attempt to make his blonde companion laugh. 

“What the hell are you talking about, Jones?” Emma impatiently sighs. Oops. It seems his phrasing may have backfired a bit. Nothing to do but plow on, now. 

“Tell me - is that, or is that not, Will Scarlet attempting to put the moves on poor Belle?”

_ That _ certainly catches Emma’s attention, her head snapping up and frantically searching her surroundings. “Where? I don’t see anything.”

“Unless I’m facing the previously discussed hallucination option, right over there. Center wing, stage left,” Killian replies, pointing. When you know where to look, it’s easy to see Scarlet’s cocky stance as he chats with Belle with a smile he must think is charming plastered on his face. The lady, interestingly, doesn’t seem opposed to his attentions; the look on her face is a little skeptical, if amused, but she’s made no move to send Scarlet on his way - a feat she’s more than capable of, regardless of her sweet demeanor.

“Well  _ shit _ , you’re right,” mutters Emma as she witnesses the interaction. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“Well, we can’t be certain that anything will come out of this.” Killian had intended his words to be hedging, but they come out more snappish than he intended. Swan, of course, notices his tone, shooting him a concerned look.

“I’m not sure why you’re getting adversarial with me about this,” she remarks, causing a small flash of shame to shoot through Killian.

“I know. I’m sorry. I just… I worry about Belle, you know? We’ve gotten close these past weeks. I don’t want her to get hurt.” The word  _ again  _ remains unspoken, but hovers implied over the conversation all the same. They all know what poor Belle has already been through.

Emma smiles in a reassuring manner, absent-mindedly patting his knee in a comforting gesture that still manages to set his heart thumping wildly. Gods above, he’s got it bad for this woman. “If it makes you feel better, Scarlet’s a good guy. I know he’s a little goofy and mouthy, but he’s got a good heart under there.”

“That does help, actually, thank you Swan.”

They watch the possibly budding romance for a few moments longer before they spot Merlin heading over to their little corner, sporting his own worried look. Quickly, Emma recollects all her assorted paraphernalia, preparing for the inevitable meeting addressing how to proceed, but Killian is relieved to see that her face is slightly less panicked, the set of her shoulders marginally less stressed. 

It feels even better when Emma turns back to Killian before she leaves, the most tentative of smiles on her face. “Hey, thanks for talking me down or whatever back there. It, uh…” she falters. “It means a lot that you have that confidence in me. Thanks.”

“Anytime, Swan,” he replies, smiling gently. “As I said, I’ve yet to see you fail.”

———

Regardless of Killian’s fantastic pep talk and his seemingly unending faith in her, it’s still a rough, stressful day, any hopes Emma might have for a nice, easy week absolutely shattered. Henry senses her rough day as soon as she gets home, having been directed back to the apartment instead of meeting at the theater after school, and drags her to Granny’s for dinner in a valiant attempt to cheer her up.

(Of course, having to pay for your own cheering-up dinner kind of defeats the purpose, but Henry’s a good kid to try. Not to mention, Granny gives them significant discounts anyways, to the point where Henry probably could have paid out of his allowance if Emma had let him.)

Thankfully, salvation arrives sooner than expected in a pencil skirt and fabulous high-heeled boots, asking in an authoritative voice to speak with Mr. LeMage, please.

As it turns out, salvation is named Regina Mills. Mills, as in the sister of the source of all their problems.

“I’m sure I don’t have to pretend about where I heard about this vacancy from,” Miss Mills the Younger explains. “For what it’s worth, you aren’t the first director she’s caused a fuss with, and you won’t be the last.”

It’s a hollow reassurance. Thankfully, Regina is already passing out resumes, offering them a proposal. “With your permission, I’d like to audition for the role she left. Frankly, I would have auditioned previously, and saved you all this mess, but I was committed to another show that was shuttered due to financial difficulties.”

Merlin raises his brows in surprise before replying. “That’s an awful lot of confidence. How do I know that that… shall we say,  _ excess of confidence _ won’t result in the same problems that have led us to this conversation?”

Regina scoffs. She’s got presence and attitude, Emma will give her that. “Please. Unlike my sister, I’ve inherited a self-preservational gene that keeps me from actively sabotaging my employment. Not to mention an ounce of common sense.”

“And what are you getting out of this?” Emma thinks to ask. “Even you can’t deny this is unusual, one sister resigning and the other one showing up to make a run at the role.”

“Besides the steady job and a promising script?” Regina asks, her very eyebrows somehow regal as they lift into an elegant arch. “A healthy helping of sibling rivalry. Call me petty, but she’s been bragging about how the role was practically  _ made _ for her for months. It’s been a bit hard to stomach. I like to think I could do just as good a job, if not better - though ultimately, that’s your decision,” she defers.

Emma hates to admit it, but she’s inclined to believe the regal brunette. She may have strutted in here, but she’s demonstrated an understanding that her sister is a nightmare and gone through the normal steps of seeking a role - providing a detailed resume of her past roles and asking to audition, instead of just assuming she’ll be given the part. Granted, she has effectively jumped the line by coming to see the director before the role was even advertised, but Emma’s willing to overlook that for the moment. They’re in a serious pickle at the moment, and Regina Mills offers a way out; Emma, for one, is willing to give her a chance to try.

Of course, watching Regina audition, she’s perfect - deliciously haughty in that same way her sister was, but with a hint of humanity underneath that makes Caroline Bingley into a real woman - albeit, a selfish one - instead of a cartoon villain.

Merlin’s still a little nervous, but Emma’s got a good feeling about Regina Mills. She’s got the job; now, time will only tell what she does with it.

———

The entire production breathes a sigh of relief with the arrival of their new Caroline - Emma particularly. Killian is himself intensely relieved, though that has less to do with the casting change and more to do with the fact that it removes a heavy weight from Emma’s shoulders.

He likes comforting her, likes being able to relieve her stress in any small way, Killian realizes after that fateful day Zelena stormed out and the even more ground shaking - at least emotionally - conversation that followed. If he’s honest, he wants to play that role on a more permanent basis. Of course, Emma Swan is a tough lass, a damsel who can resolve her own distress, but she shouldn’t have to shoulder that on her own. It’d be a lucky man who could be her emotional support, her shoulder to cry or scream on, and Killian not-so-secretly dreams of filling that role.

Killian wrestles with himself all week over the idea of asking Emma out on some kind of date, weighing Liam’s words of caution and his own common sense against the fanciful wish of his traitorous heart. He’ll admit that it’s likely still a terrible idea, but ultimately, the heart wants what the heart wants.

He’s not fully confident in his suit (though that’s likely more a matter of temperament on his part), but it seems like Emma isn’t necessarily opposed to his attentions. Sure, he probably hasn’t made his interest quite as blatantly obvious as he could have, erring more towards the side of light flirtation in a valiant attempt not to undercut in any way the respect she’s earned in her position, the authority it’s crucial for her to wield. Still, she always seems genuinely happy to see him, pleased by the hot chocolate he brings her whenever he has time, welcoming of his attempts at conversation and lighthearted teasing. Ultimately, that’s enough to encourage him to act, hesitance (and, if you ask Liam, common sense) be damned.

Still, it’s with no small amount of nerves that Killian resolves to ask Emma Friday afternoon after rehearsal wraps up. Things have gotten better as the week has gone on, Regina’s hiring and subsequent excellent work ethic doing much to ease Emma’s stress about the situation from Tuesday. 

Gathering his courage, he approaches her as she’s loading up her supply box for the day. Emma seems happy to see him, though not surprised - a sign, perhaps, that his attentions have not gone unnoticed.

“What’s up, Jones?” she asks, curiously but not unkindly.

“Do you have a moment to talk?” he asks, scratching behind his ear - his own personal nervous tic. Does Emma know it’s a nervous tic? God, he hopes not, he’d love not to seem like a nervous wreck for this.

He doesn’t know if its his words or his tic that causes it, but her eyebrows are furrowed in a distinctly concerned way, Swan clearly thinking something is wrong. “Yeah, of course, what’s the matter?”

Quickly, Killian waves a hand as if to physically swat away her worry. “Oh, no, nothing’s the matter. At least I don’t think it is? Maybe you’ll think so, but I’m not intending it that way —”

“What is it, Killian?” Emma interrupts his rambling, a hint of impatience creeping into her tone.

Taking a deep breath, Killian takes a last moment to muster up his courage. “Well, I was wondering if you’d want to get dinner sometime. Or coffee. Or whatever would work for you, really, I know Henry takes up a lot of your free time, as he should —”

Killian quickly stops his rambling (again? Gods, this really is becoming a pattern, isn’t it) at the sight of Emma’s face. At best, it’s an uncomfortable expression, at worst an irritated one. Regardless, it makes Killian think that he perhaps misjudged his chances and how much Emma enjoyed their time together.

“That’s very… flattering, Killian,” Emma replies in a much nicer voice than he expected, “but I don’t date coworkers. Ever. It just doesn’t work. You’re a great guy, and I am flattered, but let’s just… keep things professional, ok?”

Red-faced, Killian nods, trying to retain what dignity he can. “Of course, Swan.”

“Great.” Emma gives a sharp nod as if to settle the subject before jerking a thumb towards the doors. “Then I’m just… gonna go. Have a nice weekend.”

“You as well,” he says softly as she retreats, impossibly lovely even in awkwardness.

Now it’s time for him to go and sink into the ground forever and definitely not tell Liam.

———

Emma  _ is _ flattered; she really is. Under other circumstances, she might have even accepted. But honestly, what the hell was he  _ thinking _ ? Honestly, this week has gone from bad to worse, with barely any bright spots.

Partially, she blames herself; she should never have been so permissive of his attentions. But she had enjoyed being treated like an adult for once, like the attractive woman she still believes herself to be underneath all the stress and overworking and being 24/7 Supermom. He hadn’t been trying to distract her from her job, either, or compromise her authority - just helping in little ways, not to mention providing that welcome distraction the other morning during the Zelena debacle.

Still, she can’t. She’s a professional, one with a quasi-authority over Jones; she can’t risk undermining her career in what would appear to be a blatant show of favoritism.

Emma hates to do it, but she thinks it’s necessary to abruptly sever all but the most professional of connections to Jones; she can’t afford to do otherwise.

She only hopes it will prove to be a clean break. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Killian. Oh Emma. Where do we go from here?
> 
> Thanks, as always, to @snidgetsafan, my wonderful beta. This thing doesn't happen without you, babe.
> 
> Also posted on tumblr - I'm @shireness-says. Come say hi if you're feeling friendly.
> 
> I love hearing back from all of you - you guys leave the most wonderful, encouraging messages. If you haven't yet and you liked this, please consider leaving kudos, comments, or feedback below; I live off the stuff.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope to see you next week!


	6. Chapter 5: Something Just Broke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still with me after what I put you through last chapter? Good. I should probably take this moment to mention that this is a bit of a slow burn...
> 
> Chapter title pulled from "Assassins", because I like it. It's a great show. You'll get used to my references. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Avoiding Killian Jones proves to be more difficult than Emma planned.

He’s always around, is the thing. For good reason, of course - you can’t really have a show without the star showing up to rehearsals. As the stage manager, Emma can’t really ignore him; regardless of her feelings or personal vows, she still has to answer any questions he has about set placements and calls for lines. They’re genuine questions, too; it’s not like he’s making things up just for an excuse to talk with her, or lingering more than the question demands.

He doesn’t even seem to be bitter with her, and Emma can’t decide whether that makes the whole thing more or less frustrating. On the one hand, that makes it easier to work with him ( _and disproving her major objections about a relationship or breakup causing awkwardness_ , her traitor brain points out); on the other, Emma kinda wishes he was more affected by the whole thing. By everyone’s account, Killian was head over heels for her for weeks, but now that she’s rejected him? Nothing. Like he’s not affected in any way.

( _That’s called being an adult_ , the voice in her head says, but Emma is very studiously ignoring that voice and anything it might have to say.)

He also must have kept the whole debacle to himself, as Emma hasn’t had to deal with any questions or whispering from the rest of the cast (and Lord knows they’re less than subtle about their gossipping). She’s in no mood to fend off inquiries, if she’s being frank; having to explain herself to Killian was more than enough. She’ll take that small silver lining as it’s offered.

———

It takes a serious effort not to seem affected around Emma.

Thankfully, he’s an actor; masking emotions and replacing them with false neutrality - or any other emotion he chooses - is literally his job. That’s not to say by _any_ stretch that he’s actually indifferent. Killian didn’t ask Emma out on a vague whim; there were serious feelings behind the words, and those still remain. He knows she’s avoiding him, and he can’t blame her; he’s certainly made everything a bit awkward. Mostly, he feels sheepish about the whole affair; he never intended for things to get awkward, but his confidence ran away from him, and here they are.

Other people must be picking up on his mild shame, as Belle pulls him aside one day as they break for lunch to check on him.

“Are you alright, Killian?” she asks, concern evident in her voice. “You’ve seemed… off, lately. Not quite yourself.”

“I promise, Belle, I’m fine,” he tries to reassure, but she looks unconvinced. “Really!”

It only takes moments before Killian breaks under the petite brunette’s incredulous stare. “Ok, fine,” he grumbles, “but not here.”

Belle manages to hold her questions until they’re both settled in with sandwiches at the local deli - Killian with his Reuben, Belle with her chicken salad - but far sooner than Killian would prefer, the interrogation continues.

“I’m worried about you, Killian,” she says. Blimey, going straight for the big guns, it seems. “You’ve been so muted, the past week, like you’re trying to hide something. You’re not yourself at all. What’s going on?”

Killian chews and swallows another bite before beginning to answer, taking the opportunity to gather his thoughts and figure out his strategy. “You’ve got to promise not to tell anyone,” he warns when he finally responds. It’s crucial that word of this not be circulating everywhere.

“Of course I won’t,” Belle replies, her tone almost affronted. “You should know that I, of all people, won’t go spreading this willy-nilly.”

“I know,” he reassures. And he does. It’s one of the reasons he’s willing to tell Belle, where he might tell Dave or anyone else a white lie. “I trust you, especially not to gossip. It’s just… embarrassing. For multiple people.”

“Don’t feel like I’m forcing you to open up,” she backtracks, her voice holding a soothing tone. “I just want to make sure you’re alright. You’re my friend.”

Killian waves a hand to dismiss the words. “No, no, I know. It’s…” Taking a deep breath, he finally lets it all out. “I asked Emma out.”

Belle’s eyebrows raise. “Emma Swan? Stage manager Emma?”

Killian groans, dropping his head to the table and barely missing his sandwich. “Yes.”

“Oh. That’s… unexpected.”

Turning his head, Killian fixes his friend with a skeptical look. “Really?”

“Ok, maybe not entirely,” Belle concedes. “We’ve all noticed the doey eyes and yearning looks. I just never thought you’d _act_ on it.”

Killian burrows his head back into his arms, attempting to literally avoid facing the subject. “I _know_. Trust me. I got too blinded by my feelings and forgot all the reasons it was a bad idea.”

“She is the woman who docks the pay.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Killian dismisses. “She’s far too… _good_ to ever retaliate. Moral, and all that. I’ve apologized, anyways. It will be fine, I’m sure; things are just a little awkward right now, which is what you’re picking up on. She doesn’t need to deal with me being a mooning fool, so I’ve been doing my best to disguise my feelings.”

“That makes sense,” Belle says, nodding in understanding before reaching to finish her sandwich. Picking himself back up off the table, Killian moves to do the same, before his companion adds a final word. “You’re doing well at that, for the record. Downplaying your feelings and trying to seem unaffected. Except for the guilt,” she amends. “The sheepishness is peeping through, every so often.”

“Thanks,” Killian mumbles back. It’s a small comfort, knowing he’s succeeding in his efforts, but he’ll take it all the same.

“Out of curiosity - and feel free to tell me it’s none of my business, I know I’m prying even more than I already have - but where are you going from here?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… well, I know you’re not just getting over your feelings overnight, but is that what you’re trying to do? Or is this more of a hope springs eternal thing?”

“That’s the thing; I don’t know,” Killian admits. “You’re right, these feeling aren’t just going to spontaneously disappear, especially when we see each other every day. But I’m not sure I’m ready to commit to months of pining when she’s already made her wishes quite clear, either. I don’t want to just sit around sighing about ‘maybe one day’, you know? I’m not _actually_ Darcy,” he jokes, earning a warm laugh from Belle. However, the moment quickly turns serious again. “I guess… I just want to be able to keep spending time with her, as friends. It’s been such a dull week with her avoiding me, and feeling like I can’t chat with Henry. I miss her,” he shrugs, earning a smile from Belle.

“You want my advice?” She asks.

“If you’re offering.”

“Tell her what you just said,” his friend advises. “Tell her about how you see her points, and you agree that it wouldn’t be advisable to enter into a relationship with each other, but you don’t want to lose her friendship. Or Henry’s. Definitely mention Henry,” Belle offers conspiratorially, “because I’m pretty sure that kid misses you too, and it will probably make her more comfortable with the two of you hanging out in the theatre again if she knows you miss him for his own sake. But yeah, highlight that you know where you went wrong, you won’t let your feelings get in the way again, and you’ve missed her friendship. Maybe she’ll still try to keep that distance, but it’s worth a shot.”

Killian nods thoughtfully, processing her words. Belle is right; it’s certainly worth a shot. Better than any plan he’s come up with. “Thank you, Belle, that’s an excellent plan. I’ll make sure to try it .”

“You’re welcome. Anytime.” Thankfully, Belle seems willing to move on from the subject, her worry now appeased, and changes to more pleasant topics. “Before I forget, I’ve got to tell you about this book I’ve been reading lately - I think you’d absolutely love it…”

———

If Emma thought the situation with Killian would get better over time, she was sadly mistaken.

Maybe if it was only the two of them involved in this attempt at a clean break, it’d be fine. Killian is unfailingly friendly without ever pushing the romantic issue, and their interactions are, without exception, entirely professional. She knows he wants more - can tell by the look in his eyes, by the way he still tries to seek her out, by the way his face falls when she maintains her emotional distance - but he’s not pushing it, which speaks well of him.

Unfortunately, it’s not just the two of them, because it seems that Henry has become more attached to Killian than Emma had realized. She knew they were spending time together, after rehearsal but before dinner; however, it must have been more time than Emma was aware of, as Henry does _not_ take well to her attempts to steer his attention elsewhere.

“Why can’t I go hang out with Killian?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed in suspicion in a way he _totally_ got from her.

“I think he’s busy. Why don’t you go see what Robin’s up to?” It’s probably a lie, but a white lie at most, so Emma’s choosing not to count it as lying to her kid.

Henry’s having none of that though. “Literally, Mom, I can see him right over there. He’s just helping clean up. And I hung out with Robin yesterday, he gets all distracted by the light board and stops talking to me. Killian is more fun.”

“Yeah, well, cleanup is important, and probably something you should do in your own room. If you don’t want to wait here with me, Will Scarlet probably has something you can help with.”

“You sent me over to Will the day before, and then made me come back when you saw he had me helping move sets. And before you even suggest it, Kristoff isn’t even here today. Why can’t I just go hang with Killian?” Henry’s voice pitches higher and higher at the end of his sentence, quickly veering into whiny and almost petulant.

“Because I say so, ok?” Emma snaps, losing her cool for a second before composing herself once again. “Look, I’m glad you get along so well with the cast, but I’m kind of in charge of them. Sort of. That means I have to keep some boundaries, and since you’re basically an extension of me, that means you do too. I know you don’t like, it, but that’s just the way it’s gotta be.”

“You don’t make us keep ‘boundaries’ or whatever with Mary Margaret,” Henry counters, crossing his arms. If Emma’s not mistaken, they’re veering firmly into sulking territory, but she isn’t really sure how to fix it.

“Yeah, well, Mary Margaret’s a friend, practically family. It’s different.”

“Killian’s my friend!” Henry tries to argue, but Emma’s had about enough.

“That’s just how it is, okay?!? You don’t have to like it, but you _do_ have to listen to me. Now, if you don’t want to go see Robin or Scarlet, you can sit in the seats and work on your homework until it’s time for dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” Henry grumbles - a blatant lie, if everything she’s come to know about pre-teen boys is to be trusted.

“Fine,” Emma grinds out. “Until Elsa arrives then.”

“Fine,” Henry bites right back, before storming off into the corner most distant from her.

Great.

She and Henry don’t fight often, is the thing - Emma’s not well versed in what to do when it happens, and it always leaves her in a foul mood for the rest of the day. Henry’s still mad at her when Elsa collects him an hour later, barely telling her a short goodbye and avoiding her attempts to kiss him. Emma _hates_ it; the whole thing leaves her with an awful twisting in her gut that she knows will be there until she fixes things with her son.

Mary Margaret finds her stewing twenty minutes later, and in true Mary Margaret fashion, is determined to fix everything through talking through their feelings.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, concern written on every part of her face. That’s just who Mary Margaret is: deeply concerned about the wellbeing of everyone around her.

Unfortunately for her, Emma is much more the type to keep her feelings inside, building up until they eventually explode. Emma blames her time spent in Minnesota as a kid; it’s Midwestern repression at its purest and finest. “It’s fine, M’s,” she tries to wave off. “Just a little spat with Henry. It’ll pass.”

Even more unfortunately for Emma, Mary Margaret is a champion wheedler, capable of gently pestering a person until they spill all their secrets without any awareness of it. Even though Emma _knows_ that this is how her friend operates, she still feels herself falling into that trap as soon as the petite brunette opens her mouth. “You and Henry don’t fight very often,” she observes, and really, that’s all it take before Emma finds herself prepared to start spilling everything.

“I know. I kinda hate it,” she replies, hopping up onto the edge of the stage to take the weight off her feet and better focus on the incoming emotional conversation.

Mary Margaret nods, humming contemplatively before leaning against the dark wood, weight resting on her forearms and hands folded neatly. “Is it something you think you can fix?”

“No,” Emma groans. “At least not easily.” When the expected encouragement and advice doesn’t materialize, Emma continues, almost against her will. “He wanted to hang out with Killian, is the thing, and won’t accept my very good reasons why he shouldn’t do that.”

“Which are?”

Emma shrugs, still pointlessly trying to keep the conversation casual when that’s already a lost cause. “Professionalism and all that. I shouldn’t really be consorting with the people I have a sort-of-authority over, and Henry’s basically an extension of me, so he’s got to keep a distance too.” It’s still not the truth, but Emma feels marginally less guilty about lying to Mary Margaret. She’ll probably maneuver the truth out of Emma anyways.

Sure enough, Mary Margaret raises a skeptical eyebrow, looking at Emma like she _knows_ she’s hiding something. “That’s flimsy, and you know it,” she admonishes gently. “C’mon, Emma, what’s the real reason?”

Emma sighs heavily and wars with herself for a moment longer before she spills everything. It’s a lost cause, anyways; Mary Margaret is scary good at the whole mothering thing like that. “He kind of, maybe… asked me out,” she mumbles hastily, anxious to just get the words out so they can get through this as soon as possible.

(Infuriatingly, Mary Margaret is right; Emma _does_ feel lighter for having told someone.)

“Oh, Emma,” her friend sighs with that patented tone that’s somewhere between disappointment and reproof. “I take it you didn’t accept?”

“How could I?” Emma demands, hackles suddenly raised. She knows Mary Margaret doesn’t blame her, but there’s still the feeling that she needs to justify herself, somehow. “I’m not really his boss, but still, it’s an awful idea! Dating someone I work with? What if it all goes wrong?”

“What if it all goes right, though?” M’s prods, ever the romantic at heart. See, this is _exactly_ why Emma didn’t tell her before - Mary Margaret has always been the type to sense love in the air everywhere, and always will be. It’s an admirable quality, maybe, but it doesn’t have a place here.

“Well, regardless, I’m trying to keep my distance. Keep things strictly professional. Which was going _great_ , except apparently Henry got more attached to Killian than I realized. This is _exactly_ why I don’t date!” Emma finishes emphatically, pounding a hand against the dark planks in emphasis.

“He’ll come around, you know. Henry, that is.” As ever, Mary Margaret is able to see right to the heart of Emma’s current emotional problem. The Killian stuff, while important, is only a detail contributing to her current problem.

“I know,” Emma exhales on a sigh. “It just sucks in the meantime.”

“And you’ll figure things out with Killian too. One way or another.”

This sigh is more of exasperation than acceptance. “There’s not going to be ‘another’ way, M’s. I’m not dating a coworker. End of story.”

“Alright,” Mary Margaret singsongs. “But you know what they say - love always finds a way…”

Emma actually isn’t sure that’s what ‘they’ say, but she’ll play along just to escape further discussion of the topic. “Alright, Mary Margaret. Though, for the record, there’s no _love_ involved.”

Mary Margaret just smiles sagely, like she holds all the secrets of the universe. “Whatever you say, Emma. Whatever you say.”

———

Things _do_ get better with Henry. Ultimately, he still disagrees with her on the Killian matter, but that’s been set to the side in favor of familial harmony. Emma suspects he’s sneaking off to Killian’s dressing room without telling her, but she’s willing to not pursue the issue for the moment. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, and all that.

In all the hustle and bustle that comes with bringing a major production to the stage, Emma nearly forgets her own birthday. Of course, that’s not terribly unusual - growing up without anyone to care, her birthday was always a non-event, the date only ever being marked with any amount of ceremony after meeting Ruby and Mary Margaret and having Henry - but at least this year, she has an excuse for it.

Of course, Mary Margaret is _Mary Margaret_ , and Emma should have known that skipping over her birthday would never fly, because her friend has _plans_. And those plans include a party. At Granny’s. That she gleefully invites the entire cast and crew to after rehearsal one day, on top of probably everyone else in Emma’s life that the reluctant birthday girl is friendly with. Which is pretty much just Elsa. But still. Emma’s point stands.

Emma definitely would have preferred a much smaller party, but again, Mary Margaret is _Mary Margaret_ and she doesn’t do anything by halves. Emma’s really grown to like the people she works with, for the most part, anyways. It helps that they all seem excited to hear that she’s a human with a life and a birthday outside of this theater, enthusiastically informing her about how they’ll _be there_ and are _looking forward to this_ and _have something going on that night, but are planning to at least drop by for a few minutes._ It’s touching. Really.

The one exception is Jones, who gets a decidedly nervous look on his face as soon as Mary Margaret climbs on a platform and issues her invite. It’s probably warranted - _definitely_ warranted, because they still haven’t figured things out, not really. Figuring things out would involve talking and interacting on a slightly more personal level, and those are both things Emma hasn’t made any effort to do, yet. Plus, if things were _really_ figured out, Emma would be back to viewing Killian as just another coworker, and there wouldn’t be any debate about him being issued a invitation to her birthday-party-slash-cast-bonding-exercise.

As it is, they’re not at that point yet, resulting in a very nervous-looking Englishman asking Emma for a word after everyone disperses.

“I don’t have to come, if you’d rather I don’t,” he says bashfully, cutting straight to the point. He’s still looking out for her best interests, Emma realizes, even when she barely looks at him. It sends a shot of guilt racing through her, spurring her next words.

“It’s fine,” she replies, doing her best to mask the note of apprehension in her voice. “There will be a ton of people there if Mary Margaret has anything to do with it. It’ll be fine, regardless of… whatever.” ‘Whatever’ is definitely an understatement for their situation, but it’s the best and most succinct word that Emma has at the moment.

“Are you sure?” Killian asks, concern in his voice. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, especially not on your birthday.”

“Yeah, sure,” Emma says, fully aware that her voice is less than convincing. “I mean, we’re adults, we can be professional or whatever.”

“Of course,” Killian eagerly nods in agreement before continuing. “As long as we’re talking, I do want to say that I’m sorry. For asking you out and… all that’s followed.”

Emma won’t admit it to anyone except maybe on pain of death, but her heart drops to her stomach at his words. Sure, she didn’t want to start a relationship with Jones, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to hear that he regrets his actions. Was it just the actions he regrets? Or is it her? Because the sinking feeling in her is currently making her think the latter.

Killian must be able to read her thoughts on her face in some weird, psychic way, because he quickly backtracks, eyes wide in their sockets. “I don’t mean I’m sorry for _asking_ , naturally, just… well, maybe I am, just not from a regret the interest standpoint, but rather from a… regret the action.” He stops abruptly in his rambling to run a hand through his hair in a clear marker of his stress. “I’m absolutely bollocksing up this explanation, aren’t I?”

Emma nods slowly. That’s certainly one way to put it. She is vaguely reassured by his awful attempt at an explanation in a way she can’t quite describe, but she’d still like actual words.

Killian heaves a sigh before finally removing his hand from his now thoroughly mussed hair. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is… you’re right. It would be a terrible idea to date a coworker. I’ve never been particularly good at looking before I leap, and I got a bit too swept up in the feelings of it all to contemplate the consequences of what I was asking for. I do hope you’ll forgive me for that, and I do understand why you’ve been trying to keep a professional distance ever since.”

“Thank you,” Emma replies. She’s not sure why; it mostly just seems like the thing she’s supposed to say. It does get Killian to release some of that tension he’s carrying and actually smile, however, so it was likely the right thing. She may have been keeping her distance, but she never wanted him to be _uncomfortable_.

“Do you think we could just forget the whole thing, then?” he asks, almost painfully earnest. “I’ve rather missed talking with you these past days. Henry too. He’s a bright lad, and I love hearing about all his future shows. I know it’s an awful lot to ask, but… friends? No more of this emotions stuff, I promise.”

Emma’s still having trouble envisioning what that would look like, but Killian looks so damn _earnest_ , it’s impossible to say no. Even if they don’t follow through, agreeing to act more normal will maybe help this weird tension between them. There’s only so long that they can carry on with this strictly business freeze-out before people notice, and Emma thinks they’re already about at that limit.

“Alright, sure,” she finally replies, setting Killian’s face into a relieved smile. “Friends. Just like before. But this isn’t some… plot, where friends turn into something more. Just friends.”

“Just friends,” Killian echoes with a smile. “That’s all I’m asking for. Just the way things were.”

“Ok then,” Emma smiles, putting on her bravest face and pretending she’s confident their words will work. “Friends.”

———

Killian had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t tell anyone about his failed romantic overture, not even his brother, but that vow had been broken almost as soon as it had been made. He always tells Liam _everything_ in his life, especially the matters he’s struggling to react to; refraining from doing so in this matter wasn’t just unthinkable, it was impossible to accomplish, and Liam had known the whole sorry tale before 48 hours had passed. Now, faced with adapting to his and Emma’s new and currently strained dynamic, he doesn’t hesitate to call, hoping his brother will have some kind of pertinent advice.

“How does one be a good friend to a woman they’re romantically interested in?” Killian all but demands as soon as Liam picks up the phone.

“Yes, hello, little brother, I’m quite well, so lovely to hear from you,” Liam deadpans, apparently not aware of the urgency of the question.

“Hi, Liam, it’s nice to hear your voice,” he grumbles anyways, well aware that his elder brother is just stubborn enough not to move the conversation forward without the niceties being observed. “Now, can we get back to my crisis?”

“Of course, though I’m not sure what advice I can give. My romantic pursuits don’t tend to end in this manner,” he teases.

“Yes, yes, I know, you’re a fancy, handsome movie star with the sense not to ask out his coworkers. Come _on_ , Liam, I’m serious. I don’t want to misstep, here.”

“Well, what were you doing before?”

Killian runs a distressed hand through his hair, knowing very well that Liam can’t see the gesture but probably knows what he’s doing anyways. “I don’t know… little things. Brought her hot chocolate. Tried to solve easy problems and questions before anyone bothered her about them. Held doors, collected pencils… you know. Generally tried to be a gentleman and make her life easier.”

“Ok, well, is there any reason you can’t keep doing those things?” Liam suggests, eliciting a groan from Killian. “Don’t groan at me, Killy, I’m serious! Those are all things you can do as a good friend. Trying to relieve unnecessary burdens is just something a good person does. I mean, I’d recommend mixing up on the hot chocolate front, maybe bringing David or Belle a drink every so often so it looks less like a special preference for your girl. But yeah, why couldn’t you just… keep doing what you didbefore?”

“Because…” Killian tries to find a protest, but comes up short. Maybe he really is overthinking this. “I don’t know. If I’m just acting the way I was before, when I already fancied her, won’t it be obvious I still feel the same?”

“She didn’t have any problems with it back before you asked her out, did she?”

“No. Not that I’m aware of at least.”

“Then no. Stop worrying and overthinking this, Killy,” his brother good-naturedly scolds from across the nation. “Just keep being the gentleman I taught you to be. It will be _fine_.”

“You think so?”

“I do,” Liam affirms. He’s probably right; it seems like Liam nearly always is, and his easy confidence lends Killian a small bit of faith that things really will be alright.

“Now, enough about you,” Liam teases, “let’s talk about me…”

———

Vows of friendship and plans of action are all well and good, but the real test of their agreement only occurs when everyone’s gathered together for Emma’s birthday party.

Killian has never been to Granny’s Diner, but it seems that Emma and Henry certainly have, Granny herself fussing over Henry behind the counter. It shouldn’t surprise him; he’d learned from Mary Margaret the elderly proprietress is the real grandmother of Ruby Lucas, the colorful costume assistant who had taken Killian’s measurements way back at the beginning of rehearsals and been a sporadic and sassy presence on the production ever since, and he knows Swan and Ruby are old friends. The diner itself looks like your typical New York greasy spoon - booth seats that haven’t been updated in decades, a handful of bar stools along a worn counter, wallpaper in some indistinguishable pattern. Still, there’s something bright and cheery about the place. Maybe it’s the decorations, or the lighting that’s bright without being institutional, or the way the establishment is clearly meticulously cleaned. Or maybe, it’s just a brightness born of a place that’s clearly been built on happy memories. Regardless, Killian is comfortable in the place as soon as he steps in.

“You made it!” Mary Margaret cheerfully chirps in greeting. Dimly, he can hear her chattering away about where the food is and who has arrived, but Killian doesn’t really notice much beyond her greeting, far too distracted by the sight of Emma across the room. He thinks he absent-minded offers replies to his enthusiastic hostess before she bustles off to greet the next arrival, but honestly, he can’t be sure, eyes and mind filled with blonde hair and a beaming smile. He’d thought Emma to be beautiful since the first moment he saw her - beautiful and impressive and accomplished, to borrow an Austen-esque word - but there’s something different and special about seeing her in this setting that only heightens that beauty. It’s her attitude, he thinks; at rehearsal, she keeps herself so contained behind her professional persona, only letting her personality peek through occasionally and usually only with her crew. Before the debacle, he’d counted himself privileged to have her show him even a little bit of what she was really like. But here, at her own birthday party, she’s almost carefree, smiling and laughing easily and teasing her boy. It may be many of the same people involved, but they’re on her turf; she can be more herself, and it’s glorious to witness.

He’s so caught up in watching, dumbstruck, that he doesn’t even notice Belle come up beside him until she’s pressing a glass of punch into his hand. “Looked like you were off in another world there for a few minutes,” she comments, clearly amused at Killian’s surprise at her sudden appearance.

“I’m not convinced I wasn’t,” Killian mutters to himself, though Belle does overhear and lets out an indelicate snort of laughter.

“Well, touch back down to earth, Mr. Astronaut,” she teases. Then, soft enough for only him to hear, she adds some final advice. “Careful, Killian, or the slack-jawed longing looks may mess up whatever agreement you and Emma may have come to.”

“You’re not wrong there, either.”

Killian is actually rather proud of himself, that he’s able to go and mingle and enjoy himself for almost 45 minutes without being drawn to Emma’s side like a feeble paperclip to a powerful magnet. When he sees Robin wander off from whatever conversation he and Emma were having, however, leaving a convenient opening for Killian to swoop in for his own moment, Killian can’t resist the opportunity. Grabbing another pair of punch cups - the alcoholic ones this time - he quickly sidles up and offers one to Swan.

“Happy birthday,” he leads, grinning. “Having fun yet?”

“Oh, sure,” she intones, very seriously, before laughing. “Yeah, I am. Really. I mean, Mary Margaret definitely went all out,” she concedes, gesturing around at all the fuss, “but it’s nicer when it’s for you.”

“I’m sure.”

Conversation cuts to silence, but it’s no longer the comfortable quiet that it used to be. There’s a tension now, one that echoes with racing thoughts and questions of how they’re supposed to act.

Killian finally breaks the silence with an uncomfortable chuckle, scratching behind his ear in a nervous gesture. “We’re not very good at this ‘just the way it was before’ thing, are we.”

Thankfully, it gets Emma to smile and exhale on a half-laugh. “God, I’m glad I’m not the only one thinking it.”

“We’ll figure it out though, right?” He tries to keep his voice level, desperately hoping that the desperation doesn’t creep into his voice and lend it a pathetic edge, but he’s not fully sure he succeeds.

Still, Emma takes pity on him and agrees. “Yeah. We’ll figure it out. You know, eventually.”

Eventually. It’s not normal yet, but it will be. Eventually. In the meantime, there’s always the distraction of other people - an outlet Emma willingly grasps onto.

“You’re friends with David, right?” she asks, changing the subject less than gracefully, though more than welcomed.

“We’re friends, aye,” he responds. “What of it?”

“Do you know what the hell is going on with him and Mary Margaret? I’ve tried asking her, but I can’t make heads or tails of it. Are they dating? Are they not?”

“I _know_ ,” Killian groans. “It’s like watching some bizarre mating dance. They’re both interested, there’s nothing holding them back. I can’t figure out for the life of me why this hasn’t gone anywhere.” There’s a passing thought in the back of his mind that an observer of his and Swan’s dynamic might say something similar, but he doesn’t have the time or inclination to truly dwell on it.

“Part of me just wants to yell at them to _do it_ already, but Mary Margaret acts like my mother enough that it feels weird to comment on her sex life,” Emma admits, a fond note in her voice.

Conversation comes a bit easier, now that they’ve found a topic, and Killian is shocked to realize that almost 15 minutes have gone by with him monopolizing the birthday girl. He’d love to keep chatting for even longer, truthfully; however, his inner sense of etiquette (reminders that are, curiously, made in Liam’s voice) decrees that it’s time to move on.

“I’ll let you go, mingle and talk with the rest of your guests,” he says, apology injected into his voice. “I’ll talk to you later?” It’s probably foolish to infuse so much pure _hope_ into his voice, but he can’t help it; he’s missed their interactions, and now that they’ve talked like old friends again, he hates the idea of giving that up again.

But Emma eases his fears with a small but genuine smile. “Yeah, we’ll talk later.”

They’re going to be ok.

———

Not long after Killian saunters back to the dessert table, Henry rejoins her company with a smug look on his face. “So, does this mean I can hang out with Killian again?”

Emma rolls her eyes affectionately at Henry’s words. “Like you actually stopped doing that.”

“I did!” Henry protests, though both of them know it’s all in good fun. “But still. Can I?”

“Yes, you can hang out with Killian again,” she concedes on a dramatic sigh as her son breaks into a huge grin. “Though I’m a little insulted that you don’t think hanging with the crew is as fun.”

“Killian’s cool,” Henry shrugs, unapologetic in the face of his mother’s teasing. It does warm her heart a little, for reasons she doesn’t want to admit. Henry’s already moved onto bouncing impatiently as she attempts to draw him into a hug, so she reluctantly releases him to his own devices.

“Alright, go ‘hang out’ with your new best friend,” she says, pretending to be put out while suppressing a smile all the while. Barely have the words left her mouth before Henry excitedly darts over to Killian, ready to chat about God-knows-what.

Things _will_ be ok, she thinks watching the two together before she’s distracted by the next well-wisher. She’d been worried about the new dynamic with Killian, but they really had fallen back into old habits, given the right conversation. And it’s clear that he’s thrilled to see Henry, a wide smile gracing his face at the boy’s excited exclamations. She had doubted it would be possible, but it seems like they really have been able to go back to the way things were before.

Casting a final glance at the two dark heads at the counter, one short and one tall, Emma turns back to her own party feeling like an emotional stress has been lifted from her soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, they're back on track. Or at least talking to each other again. Hey, it's progress, right?
> 
> Thanks go, as always, to the best beta ever, @snidgetsafan, who makes all this better and reminds me of backstory that I forget.
> 
> Also posted on tumblr - I'm @shireness-says. Come for the fic, stay for the sporadic art reblogs. 
> 
> If you liked this, consider leaving kudos, comments, or feedback - I thrive on your responses. And thanks to all of you who already have!
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I'll see you all next week, when our characters are treated to a surprise visitor...


	7. Chapter 6: Here For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from 9 to 5, of all things. Yes, it was made into a musical, and yes, Dolly Parton was still involved.
> 
> Enjoy!

Honestly, it’s hard to focus on whether or not things are actually better with Killian because she’s so damn _busy_. It feels like they’ve hit some proverbial “point of no return” in the production, the show barreling ahead like a runaway train, everyone involved simply hanging on as tight as they can as the date moves closer and closer to previews and, inevitably, opening night.

It overwhelms Emma, some days, just how much there is left to _do_ . They’re permanently moved into the theater now that the set is done - no more of this “back to the rehearsal space every other day” nonsense - but Emma can’t help but wonder some days if that wasn’t a mistake. She’s still feeding David Nolan lines and the choreography for the Pemberley scene still looks only two steps above sloppy and _God_ , their projected timetable was _such_ a mistake. And sure, there’s time to clean it up - previews are still three weeks away, starting November 19th - but there’s still so many notes every day of stuff they need to fix, not to mention the sheer _stress_ of it all.

Emma loves every moment of it.

She’s operating in the midst of barely controlled chaos and honestly, she’s in her element. There’s a rush unlike any other to doing this part of her job, and Emma thrives on the variety and unpredictability. Every day is something new and exciting, even if it is stressful.

Of course, the flying hormones don’t help her stress level in the least. Mary Margaret and David are bad enough, with their are-they-aren’t-they romance - seriously, at a certain point someone’s going to have to tell them to knock it off, before audiences get confused about whether Bingley is supposed to seem so attracted to Charlotte Lucas - but Will Scarlet doesn’t help matters either. Belle is on stage nearly constantly, but the rare moments she’s not, Emma’s has to watch Scarlet like a hawk to make sure he’s not showing off to Belle at the expense of his own concentration and duties.

“Sorry, Boss,” he always grins when Emma has to storm backstage to find out exactly _why_ he’s not adjusting the positioning of the backdrop when she _clearly_ asked it of him, Belle suppressing her own smile at a distance much more reasonable than Emma suspects she occupied only seconds before. Honestly, Emma’s tempted to just fire him, but the truth is that Scarlet’s an exceptional stagehand, just as Robin promised - a real jack of all trades, able to find unconventional solutions to the ridiculous problems inevitably created as a side effect of live theatre.

(And really, the side of Emma that’s not the boss has to admit that the whole spectacle is kind of cute, how earnest and eager Scarlet - usually such a smartass - acts around Belle. She deserves that kind of devotion, anyways.)

What’s worse is that the hormones seem to be _catching_ , as insane as that sounds. Or at least it seems like they are. Robin stutters through all mic checks with Regina and turns a vaguely adorable shade of pink anytime she comes up to the booth to verify something with Emma, and Kristoff must have met Elsa’s sister at Emma’s party, because he won’t stop asking if she’s seen Anna lately in a casual tone of voice completely ruined by the frequency of his questions. And you know, it’s not like Emma’s some sort of anti-love Grinch. She can be on board with happily-ever-afters or whatever. But they are trying to do a major job here, and honestly, she’d really appreciate it if they’d ignore the call of their dicks for like five minutes, thank you very much.

Not that she can talk. She’s not nearly as God-awful lovestruck as some of the guys - looking at you, Scarlet - but she’s not nearly as detached as she’s trying to pretend. While there’s still some work to do in the costuming department, the main cast has complete costumes now, and it’s… a lot. A lot in a good way, but _a lot._ And yes, Emma does have words to spare for the delicate gauzy ballgowns Ms. Blue fashioned for the Bennet girls, and even for the absurd amber concoction Regina’s been dressed in, but truthfully, Emma’s distracted by a different costume piece altogether. Because as much as she admires the construction of the rest of the costumes… those breeches are something else.

Even that statement is a little bit deceptive; it’s not all the breeches that Emma is enthralled by. Staring at David’s or August’s lower halves feels a little bit like ogling her brothers. No, she’s specifically distracted by the breeches adorning the very shapely legs of one Killian Jones.

It’s not like she’s blind, and she’d have to be not to notice that Killian is a remarkably handsome specimen of a man. But the period dress is something else altogether. Part of it is the whole fairy tale thing, Emma thinks, and in his formal coat and cravat, Killian certainly looks the part. And paired with his manners, that almost over-the-top gallantry? He’s the very picture of a storybook prince. But the other, greater factor here is absolutely undeniable: Killian Jones looks _hot_ in that costume, in all the best ways. There’s something about the way the fabric so perfectly molds to his ass and muscular thighs that never fails to send a jolt of want right through her, no matter how much she tries to deny it.

She does try to deny it, for the record; deny it and ignore it and try to justify it as just appreciating the excellent work of the costuming team. Emma turned him down, after all. It’d be absolutely ridiculous to be checking him out after that.

Still, sometimes Emma finds herself watching him with a sense of longing; a sense of _what if?_

What if she was wrong? What if she had said yes?

Those thoughts are dismissed as out of hand just as quickly, however. Emma turned him down to protect her career and her credibility in the face of temptation; there’s absolutely nothing in her decision to regret. It was the right decision, and she absolutely stands by it. Emma Swan absolutely, definitely did not make a mistake in turning down Killian Jones’ proposition, no matter how fantastic his ass looks in those pants.

(She’s totally checking him out.)

———

Killian can tell that Swan is ogling him. She’s not particularly subtle about it, no matter what she’s no doubt telling herself; the little shake of her head, like she’s trying to settle her mind or dislodge an unwanted thought, is a dead giveaway. He’d mention how adorable it is, if he wasn’t absolutely certain of the glare he’d inevitably receive in response.

He’s not much better, honestly; only marginally more subtle. He’s always been impressed by Emma Swan, but this… this is something else altogether. He sounds like a broken record, repeating the same words over and over, but Emma is truly a marvel in motion. There’s an intensity to her movements that Killian would almost call single-minded if he didn’t know exactly how much she’s juggling at once. Not that she ever lets it show. Emma’s a perpetual face of calm despite the chaos around her and everyone’s best efforts to make her life even harder. In fact, Killian thinks Emma might even _enjoy_ it, holding the reins in her hands and attempting to forcibly pull them back into line. She’s a force of nature, and it’s wildly attractive.

“That’s not too weird, right?” he asks Liam on the phone one night. “Being so attracted to the way she’s whipping us all into shape?”

“Let’s try to avoid the word whipping in this sentence,” Liam teases, “but I don’t think it’s that weird. She’s a confident, attractive woman, and her authority I’m sure is part of that attraction.”

“She just makes it look so easy, you know?” Killian elaborates enthusiastically. “There’s so much going on, and she’s handling it all at once, without breaking a sweat. And she’s so confident about it! I know I’d be a frenzied mess, but she’s so _effortless_ about it, like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Which she does, she so absolutely does. You can just tell she’s in her element.” Killian pauses for breath. Realizing how he sounds, positively gushing over a girl, he smiles sheepishly. “I know I must sound ridiculous, but there’s something… something _alluring_ about that confidence. I can’t explain it properly.”

Technically, he does have the words to describe it, but not without sounding like a loon. There’s almost a glow about Emma, a visible aura of certainty that envelops her as she breezes through the theatre. And she’s _breathtaking_ , cloaked in that absolute assurance of her capability.

“Ah, but you’re certainly making a valiant effort all the same, babbling away like a lunatic,” Liam teases.

“Shut up,” Killian grumbles back. “I don’t mean to annoy you, blathering on like this, but she’s just — ”

“ — a marvel?” Liam cuts in. “Aye, you’ve mentioned it.”

“Alright, alright, I can take a hint,” Killian concedes. “We can move on. How have you been?”

“Can’t complain. I’ve been keeping busy, and the weather has finally gotten more pleasant. I can’t tell you anything about work, but…”

“I didn’t particularly expect it anyways.” The latest installment of Liam’s superhero series, _The Cavalry_ , is currently filming and famously tight-lipped about any details. Killian grew quite used to not discussing his brother’s work during the last films, and this one has proved no different.

“You know the drill. But hey, keep an eye out the next few days, would you? There’s something headed your way.”

“Something headed my way?” Killian can’t imagine why. It’s not his birthday, and Christmas is still weeks away, when Liam plans to fly into New York. If all goes well with the show, Liam’s schedule will be more flexible than Killian’s for the foreseeable future, filming commitments notwithstanding.

“A surprise. You’ll like it, I promise,” Liam assures.

“Alright, I’ll watch for a package then. I’ll let you know when it arrives.”

Liam chuckles, though Killian can’t imagine why. If there’s a secret reason, it’s probably nothing good. “Oh yes, you do that.”

The rest of the call is much more mundane, though in the best of ways. Even when they’re not talking about anything of import, Killian cherishes phone calls with his brother.

“Remember - keep an eye out,” Liam says to close the call. “It should reach you on Thursday. Love you, Killy, I’ve got to go.”

“Love you too.”

Apparently, he’s keeping an eye out.

———

“You’re aware there’s some guy here, right?” Robin asks her during rehearsals Thursday afternoon, and Emma whips her head around so fast she’s a little worried about whiplash.

“No! Who? Where?” she demands, frantically searching the dimmed theater.

“I don’t know who, that’s kinda why I was asking. He’s in the back by the stairs, center section. Not filming or making trouble, just watching. Figured that was more your pay grade to address.”

“You’re paid more than me.”

“Ah, well, this industry isn’t exactly on top of the gender pay gap. Not to mention paying people based on how much they’re doing instead of whether their title can be nominated for a Tony,” Robin concedes. “What I mean to say is that _you’re_ more of an authority figure here, and if you were being paid properly, this would be more your pay grade.”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Emma mutters as she extricates herself from the mass of wires associated with the temporarily balcony bound sound and light board, trying not to trip over Kristoff’s boxes of mic batteries.

“Oh, my pleasure.”

Sure enough, Emma easily spots the interloper as she steps off the narrow staircase, his broad frame hard to miss less than ten feet away. Squaring her own shoulders, Emma approaches him, ready for a confrontation.

“Can I help you?” she asks sternly - not demands, Emma does have some control over her tone. It must still somehow convey, however, as the man turns with a smile that can only be described as placating.

“Sorry not to announce myself, lass,” he says, “but I didn’t want to interrupt the rehearsal. It’s looking lovely, by the way.” Something about the voice is familiar, but with so many British accents flying around this production - genuine and affected - she can’t quite place it.

“Thanks,” Emma replies, mostly on automatic, before catching herself. “This is a closed rehearsal, which means no strangers just waltzing in off the street, so I am going to have to ask you —”

“Oh, I know, and I’m so sorry to intrude,” he interrupts. As Robin brings the lights back up, Emma starts to see what her intruder looks like, and oddly, _that’s_ familiar too - sandy curls and a charming smile that she _knows_ she’s never met but look weirdly familiar all the same. “I was in town rather unexpectedly and just thought I’d drop by to see my brother —”

“ _Liam?_ ” a shocked voice calls from across the auditorium, as if on cue. Killian comes rushing down the aisle, still fully in costume, only moments later. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“I _did_ tell you something was headed your way on Thursday,” the man - _Liam_ \- teases, and suddenly it all clicks into place in Emma’s head. “There was a slight delay in filming, so I thought I’d come see my little brother before I’m due back on set.”

“Liam Jones?” she demands, astonished, brain still spinning frantically, trying to process this.

“Aye, you knew I had a brother,” Killian responds, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“Yeah, well, you forgot to mention that I might recognize him from the movies.”

“Ah.” Killian’s hand goes behind his ear as if on instinct, a move Emma’s learned means that he’s feeling embarrassed. “Well, it’s an odd thing to bring up in casual conversation. Plus, I didn’t want anyone thinking I got this job based on familial connections or some nonsense.”

“I take it you’re the much talked about Miss Swan?” Liam asks, having the decency to interrupt what seems set to turn into an uncomfortable conversation. Or perhaps interrogation. Emma’s got questions, and she’s not picky.

“Uh… yeah,” she manages to choke out. “That’s me. Stage Manager. It’s nice to meet you - Killian talks about you all the time. Plus, you know, my kid loves those superhero movies. I think he’s got a countdown calendar somewhere for the next _Cavalry_.”

“Well, that’s always nice to hear,” Liam responds graciously, though whether about the Killian comment or that her kid is a fan is unclear. “I trust that Killian’s been behaving himself?” he winks. It’s possible the man is just as charming offscreen as on.

“Liam…” the man in question whines, eliciting a loud guffaw from his older brother. Because that’s absolutely what he is; Emma can see the older sibling/younger sibling dynamic clear as day.

“He is, don’t worry,” she laughs, watching her lead actor turn progressively redder with embarrassment.

“Ah, well, he’s a good lad at heart,” Liam chuckles. Emma somehow gets the feeling he’s saying it with the solitary goal of embarrassing Killian. “Would I be able to borrow him for lunch, by any chance?”

“Yeah, of course, I think we’re about to break anyways,” Emma replies warmly. “I’ll talk to my director too, see if you can hang around this afternoon. Technically it’s closed rehearsals, but I think we can probably make an exception, since you’re not in town regularly.”

“I’d appreciate that, actually, thank you,” Liam smiles, before turning back to his brother. “Are you going to change out of your costume, Killy, or are we having lunch in full Regency dress?”

“I’m going, I’m going,” he grumbles in return. “Just… Stay here, okay? Try not to make more of a fool of me than you already have?”

Liam makes no promises, but he waves his hand in a resigned acceptance that manages to convince Killian to leave for his dressing room, albeit warily looking over his shoulder the whole walk back.

“I do love embarrassing him sometimes,” Liam smirks as he and Emma watch the younger Jones’ progress.

“Well, I think you’ve accomplished that,” Emma replies, laughing. “I gotta go wrangle the crew, but let me know if you need anything?”

“Aye, of course.”

———

Killian missed out on a lot of the traditional cliches of being a teenager, mother gone too soon and father drunk too often to be the presence he needed. Still, he recognizes the stereotypical conventions when he sees them, and Liam is _definitely_ trying to make up for some of the parental humiliation Killian thought himself lucky to have missed out on, complete with a pretty girl present to witness his complete and total mortification. True, Liam is just where Killian left him when he returns from changing into street clothes, but his brother looks far too smug for Killian’s taste. Thankfully, most have already left for lunch or are holed up in their dressing rooms, so there’s no one to witness any further embarrassment on his part.

“Are you pleased with yourself?” Killian grumbles, but Liam only grins wider. Figures.

“I won’t pretend to know what you’re talking about,” he replies. Of course he doesn’t - what’s the point of interference if you admit to it? The tension quickly eases as Liam laughs, slinging an arm affectionately around Killian’s shoulders to pull him close and ruffle his hair. “Oh, but it _was_ hilarious to see the way you blushed.”

“Stuff it,” Killian replies, but it’s half-hearted at best. Despite any teasing, Killian really is pleased to see his brother. “As long as no one’s here, do you want to poke around backstage for a bit? Give you the behind the scenes tour?”

“I’d be delighted,” Liam replies, smiling more genuinely. “Lead on.”

Truthfully, if Liam’s able to stick around for the rest of rehearsals today like Emma suggested, he’ll probably see most of this anyways, but there’s a pride in taking his brother around anyways, showing Liam his dressing room and all the little corners backstage. Liam is good enough to nod along, making the appropriate exclamations over Killian’s costumes and asking questions.

Somehow, they end up concluding the little tour at the center of the stage, offering a clear view of all the various pieces around them. Really, the only thing missing is the actors.

“I know it’s hard to get the full picture when we’re still putting it all together, but God, Liam, I think it’s going to be amazing,” Killian declares. He’s probably gushing, but can’t truly bring himself to care. “I’m sure you still think there’s a lot that needs to be done, but really — ”

“I don’t think that at all,” Liam interrupts. “In fact, I’m incredibly proud of you.”

Killian can feel his ears begin to burn, but he clutches onto those words all the same. “Yeah?” he asks, needlessly seeking confirmation.

“Yeah,” Liam agrees with a gentle smile. “I was watching you earlier, and you’re undeniably talented. And I don’t just say that as your brother, mind you,” he clarifies, “but as someone who’s worked with an awful lot of actors, and knows something special when he sees it. It’s so easy to see how passionate you are about this, Killian, and the rest of the cast along with you. The crew too, if Miss Swan is any indication.”

“She is,” Killian confirms. “We all want so badly for this to work. It means… well, frankly, it means everything to me that you can see it. Thank you.”

“It’s only the truth, Killy. And even if this whole thing was a mess, and bound to close after the first night - which I don’t, for the record - I’d still be proud of you. You’re my brother,” he states simply. “I’m always going to be proud of you.”

“Thanks, Liam.” Killian’s throat is suddenly suspiciously tight with feelings, but it’s more than worth it to hear those words of validation from Liam. On impulse, he pulls his older brother into a hug, one that’s willingly returned even as Liam chuckles. As the two men pull apart, Killian discreetly attempts to clear the lump in his throat. If his brother’s barely suppressed smirk is anything to go by, that effort at subtlety wasn’t particularly successful, but at least he has the decency not to highlight that particular detail.

“Speaking of your lady, though...” Liam instead comments slyly, all but nudging Killian conspiratorially in the side to break the emotional moment as the younger man stifles a groan, “she really is something, isn’t she?”

“I think calling her ‘my lady’ is a little far,” Killian hedges, but Liam’s clearly on a roll, seemingly not even processing his younger brother’s qualifier.

“I know I teased you earlier in the week, but you’re right, there’s something about that air of authority,” Liam continues, waggling his eyebrows. “Something _alluring._ ”

“God, I so don’t want to hear this from you. _Especially_ not that imitation. Cripes, is that really what you think I sound like?”

“Yes, obviously. And we talk about your crush on the phone all the time, you ninny!” Liam points out, tone affectionate despite his words. “Isn’t this the same thing?”

“Yeah, but when we do this on the phone, I’m just talking to a voice. Talking about my love life, and lack thereof, to your face just feels… weird.”

“Alright, fine,” Liam concedes with a laugh. “But don’t think I’m dropping this permanently.”

“Oh, God forbid _that_.”

“Watch it, little brother,” Liam warns, though his wide smile betrays any pretense of scolding. “If you won’t talk about your love life, is there at least some decent pizza nearby?”

“Aye, I think we could manage that,” Killian smiles back.

“Well then don’t keep a man waiting, Killy, lead on!”

———

As Emma suspected, Merlin doesn’t have any issue with Liam Jones staying to watch rehearsals. In fact, he seems excited about it, to the point that Emma wonders if he might be a secret fanboy.

(“It’ll be great publicity!” he claims. “Hopefully he’ll be willing to vouch for the show when we open, and if any of the papers catch wind of him being here, that’ll get our name out there. From a marketing standpoint, it’s absolutely advantageous.”)

(Emma doesn’t buy those excuses for a second.)

Killian seems to throw himself into his role that afternoon with a new intensity Emma’s never seen before. Maybe it’s born from a desire to impress his older brother, who he so clearly looks up to from everything she’s seen and heard; who really knows. The point is, the show comes to life that afternoon in a way Emma’s been waiting for, the rest of the cast feeding off the prospect of a fresh-eyed audience and the sheer energy of their lead. It’s _amazing_ , and Emma is suddenly surrounded with a new confidence that this show will more than just proverbially “go on”; it’s going to be a hit, at least if she and Killian have anything to say about it.

The real highlight of the afternoon, however, is seeing Henry’s eyes just about bug out of his head when Emma brings him down after rehearsals to meet a real live action hero.

“Henry, this is Liam Jones,” Emma introduces solemnly, even as she suppresses a wide smile. “And Liam, this is my son Henry. He’s a bit of a fan,” she concludes, whispering conspiratorially.

“ _Mom_ ,” Henry hisses in embarrassment, but it does snap him out of his slack-jawed shock and awe. He can thank her later.

Liam has the grace to pretend he doesn’t notice Henry’s flushed cheeks, making the introductions slightly easier. Emma sends a mental thank you, hoping the older man can maybe sense it anyways. “It’s very nice to meet you, Henry,” he replies, smiling genially at her pre-teen.

Somehow, Henry manages to pull himself together enough to offer his hand. That’s her polite kid. “It’s great to meet you too, Mr. Jones,” he beams. “And, uh… well, yeah, I kind of am a fan. My best friend and I watch the _Cavalry_ movies all the time, they’re great.”

“Liam’s just fine, lad,” the man in question corrects gently, “but I’m always delighted to hear when people like my movies. Thank you.”

“Can you tell me anything about the next movie?” Henry all but demands in his excitement, but plows forward before Liam even gets a chance to respond. “Oh, I bet you can’t. That’s fine. Can you tell me about the first one then? How many of the stunts did you do? My friend Avery and I tried to act out the office fight scene one time - did you have to have a stunt double for any of that? Oh! I’ve got a folder with all the characters on it, you’ve got to come see!”

“You’re not trying to steal my friends, are you, Liam?” Killian calls jovially, causing the heads of both man and boy to whip in his direction. It’s kind of cute, really, to see broad grins on both their faces as they locate Killian making his way towards them.

“You never told me your brother was _Liam Jones_!” Henry accuses as Killian reaches their little cluster. Killian rolls his eyes affectionately as he slings an arm around the boy’s shoulders.

“Don’t worry, lad, I’ve already heard from your mother about how I shouldn’t have withheld that particular piece of information.”

“Hey, don’t drag me into this,” she jokes, holding up her hands up in surrender.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare, Swan,” he shoots right back. She’d almost call it flirtatious - isn’t sure that she shouldn’t still, despite the fact that they’ve agreed not to take this anywhere. Emma can’t say that she minds it that much.

The moment passes, though, as Henry interrupts excitedly. “I was about to show Liam my Cavalry folder!”

“Oh, well, that’s serious business, don’t let me stand in your way,” Killian replies, his tone deadly serious even as his eyes twinkle with a smile. Henry must take that as a kind of dismissal, as a moment later he’s dragging Liam Jones towards the back stairs by the hand, seemingly uncaring of whether the older man intended to go that way or not.

Killian chuckles beside her. “He’s certainly excited, isn’t he?”

“Oh you have _no_ idea,” Emma replies. “You should have seen his face when I introduced them. Full-on slack-jawed awe.”

“I’m sorry to have missed it,” he smiles. With Killian, Emma always feels like he actually means the words - like he’s never just saying them just because he’s supposed to - and this is no different. She likes that about him. “I wanted to thank you,” he continues, “for arranging for Liam to watch today. We don’t think he’ll be able to make opening night, so this really means a lot. To the both of us.”

“No need to thank me, it wasn’t a big deal.” Really, it wasn’t; in this case, it’s not a case of Emma being uncomfortable with compliments. It was genuinely no trouble.

“Ah, well, still. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Emma’s phone vibrates - nothing important, just the monthly calendar reminder about rent - but by the time she looks back up, Henry and Liam are navigating back down the stairs, just as Elsa walks in the door to pick the former up. Liam visibly straightens as Henry drags him over to meet their neighbor, but Emma just writes it off as courtesy, or adjusting after the climb down the stairs. Until, that is, Killian groans at the same sight.

“Look at that idiot,” he mutters, much to Emma’s confusion. At the sight of Emma’s face, scrunched up in confusion, he elaborates. “The git, he’s _flirting_.”

“Are you sure?” Emma doesn’t see it yet, but then again, she only met Liam Jones a few hours ago, unlike Killian, who may as well have devoted his life to studying the other man’s behavior. That’s the way brothers are, she imagines.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Killian all but groans. “Look at him. The smile, the little swagger… I mean, for God’s sake, he practically snapped to attention when she walked in. There’s no doubting it.”

“If it makes you feel better, Elsa’s not some easy target for that sort of flirting,” Emma consoles. “She has very little patience for this kind of thing. I think her freeze-out is famous across the city.”

However, as the two bystanders continue watching, that’s seemingly not the case. Elsa’s not exuberant by any means - Emma doubts she ever will be, the very idea running contrary to her friend’s nature - but Emma can see spots of pink coloring Elsa’s cheeks as Liam continues his flirting, even as she keeps her reserve by not returning any flirtatious comments.

“Is this what ‘very little patience’ looks, like, Swan?”

“Shut it, this is _not_ normal.”

After watching for a moment longer, Killian breaks. “Alright, this is enough.” It’s easy enough to stride over and catch Liam’s attention, as Emma hangs back for a final laugh at his expense. Honestly, he’s like a little kid who doesn’t want to share his toy.

“Are you ready to go, Liam?” he asks, tone just short of a demand.

“I suppose so,” Liam answers genially enough, though he does shoot his younger brother a confused look. “It was lovely meeting you, Elsa,” he says more genuinely in farewell.

“It was nice to meet you too, Liam,” she replies in her usual soft and polished tone, though again, Emma can spot a hint of a blush. Curiouser and curiouser. Before Emma can analyze it any further, Killian all but pushes his brother out the door, with barely more than a wave to a very confused Henry.

“What was that about?” she asks Elsa, mostly for the reaction, but her neighbor is hiding back behind the icy facade again, leaving Emma disappointed on several fronts.

“He was merely being friendly,” she replies, leaving Emma with a long list of questions and very few answers.

She’s going to have to keep an eye on this, see if it develops further - if she can weasel any information out of Elsa, that is.

———

It’s great to see his brother, even better to hear his feedback, but all good things must come to an end, and Killian has to accompany Liam to the airport on Sunday to see him off. Even after such a short visit, it’s painful to say goodbye, no matter how much Killian tries to prepare himself.

“I know I said it before, Killy, but I’m so proud of you, no matter what,” Liam tells him, drawing Killian into a tight hug. “Don’t get too into your head about it. You’re going to do so well. Try to remember that for me, alright?”

Killian nods, chin digging into his brother’s shoulder. “Aye, I’ll do my best, Liam.”

“Thank you.” They finally pull away, Liam collecting his bag to pass through security. “I’ll call you when I land, ok? Thanks for hosting me the past few days.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” It’s easier just to dismiss the words out of hand than to dwell on how rarely the two are together, how short this visit was. “I love you, brother.”

Liam smiles. “I love you too.” He begins walking towards security, but before he gets lost in the masses of JFK, he turns back one more time. “And remember what I said!”

“I promise!”

Even in the sadness of separation, Killian revels a little bit in his brother’s words as he makes his way back to the subway station. Liam’s _proud_ of him, and proud of the work Killian’s creating.

He fully plans to hold those words and that promise close to his heart to carry him through the next weeks. With previews just around the corner, he’s going to need all the reassurance he can get.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Jones Brothers, together in person! Several of you guessed that was coming, so well done, you. Previews begin in the next chapter, so hold on to your hats for when the action really gets going...
> 
> If you liked this, consider leaving kudos, comments, or other feedback - like all writers, I thrive on your reactions! For those of you already leaving me such lovely comments, I can't thank you enough!
> 
> Thanks to my phenomenal beta, @snidgetsafan, who really kept me in line with my own backstory this chapter. She's the best.
> 
> Also posted on tumblr - I'm @shireness-says. Come say hi.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I'll see you next week when we crank the stress up again!


	8. Chapter 7: What is this Feeling?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Wicked, chosen for the title rather than the content of the lyrics. Look, it's a feelings-heavy chapter guys. Think you can be ok with that? (I thought so.)
> 
> Enjoy!

He tries to keep Liam’s words in mind; he really does. But while his brother’s encouragements carry Killian through the rest of rehearsals, they’re harder to remember in the minutes before the first preview performance when there’s a crowd full of eager theater-goers filing in, excited and expecting something marvelous.

Killian should feel confident; he knows his lines inside and out, backwards and forwards, and lord knows they’ve run the show start to finish enough times in rehearsal for there to be no concerns about choreography or scene changes anymore. He doesn’t feel confident, however. In fact, if he were forced to name it, he’d say this feeling is somewhat closer to panic - pulse beating frantically, stomach churning like a storm-tossed sea, and a rising conviction that everything is about to go wrong. 

Maybe under other circumstances, he’d go find a quiet corner to release his anxiety in - screaming pointlessly seems like a fantastic outlet right about now - but they really,  _ really _ don’t have time for that at the moment. There’s only 25 minutes until curtain, people are starting to fill the seats, and cast and crew are still scrambling everywhere to complete last-minute prep. Even if Killian were able to find an empty corner to scream into, there’s no way he wouldn’t be heard. 

Since that’s not an option, Killian’s just doing his best to keep himself distracted. Luckily - or not, depending on whose shoes you’re standing in - Belle is just as much of a nervous wreck, and Killian is able to divert his attention to comforting her. Not that he’s alone in that effort; Will Scarlet no doubt has other things he should be doing, but is doing his best to buoy Belle’s spirits instead.

“God, I feel sick,” she moans, cradling her head as best she can without messing up her wig or makeup. “Why do I want to do this again?”

“Because you’re a bloody brilliant actress, love,” Will attempts to reassure, though the attempt falls a little flat.

“It doesn’t feel like it at the moment,” she admits. “God, what if this falls apart like last time? I don’t think I can bear it if that happens.”

“Yes, well last time was largely due to the meddling of other people,” Killian reminds her. “His twisted mind has no bearing on your talent, Belle. You’re a natural for this role. Don’t let him do more damage than he already did last time by letting him get in your head.” It’s in moments like these that Killian can see exactly the damage Belle’s ex did to her, undermining her self-confidence and leaving her convinced that disaster is lurking behind every stroke of apparent luck. It sets a small flame of fury burning in his heart, one that keeps chanting that his friend deserves  _ more _ . It’s as good a reason as any to set aside his own nerves - the need to perform his best not just for himself, but for Belle so that she can piece her career back together. 

“He’s right, lass,” Scarlet chimes in, slinging an affectionate arm around her shoulders to draw Belle closer into a comforting embrace. “No sense letting your thoughts dwell on a bitter old bastard. He’s not worth it; you’ve got too much talent for him to touch.”

Belle offers a relieved smile at their words, and Killian can feel the tension marginally lift from the atmosphere. They fit together, he thinks, Belle and Will, like two oddly shaped puzzle pieces that shouldn’t connect but do all the same. Scarlet is all rough edges where Belle is the picture of grace, but their oversized hearts seem to still beat in time - if they’re ever willing to admit it. Killian hopes they will soon; as amusing as this flirtation is, there’s too much chemistry and potential for them not to eventually act on it, hopefully before everyone is awash in their cast-off pheromones. Belle would give Will some needed focus, and Will would in turn grant her more levity while giving her the support she’s so sorely lacked in her past. That might be the real proof of a compatible relationship, Killian thinks; two pieces that complement each other rather than match exactly.

“Now what do you say you help me make the final checks?” he asks her. “Make sure all the glow tape is bright enough for you to find in the dark?”

Belle even manages to chuckle a little, surprising them all. “Alright,” she replies, “I suppose that’s as a good a distraction as any.”

Killian could use the distraction himself, but he senses now is his cue to leave. Though this may have started as a communal attempt to buck Belle up, things seem to be veering towards a more private moment, and he’s willing to let the lovebirds have their space. Approvingly, he watches Scarlet leap to his feet to offer Belle his hand up from their seated positions before quietly slipping away. It’s not his moment to share anymore, and he may as well check in with David anyways. 

As Killian begins the somewhat meandering path towards the dressing rooms, his thoughts turn to Emma, as they so often do when left to their own devices. Despite being in the same building, he’s hardly seen her all day, Emma nothing more than a blonde, black-clad blur as she runs around making last minute preparations. Is she as nervous as he is? Emma always seems like a beacon of calm collectedness, but Killian wonders if it’s all a front. Somehow, it’s comforting to think that she might be just as anxious about this performance as he is. 

Whatever the case, as the saying says, the show must go on. Before Killian emerges into the well-lit hallway of the dressing rooms, he takes the chance to breathe deeply to try and shake out some of the jitters. It doubtless won’t work as well as he needs, but Liam had a point, back when he visited - actors feed off each other’s energy, and they  _ really _ don’t need a theater full of fretful, neurotic performers right now. Fake it ‘til you make it, or so the saying goes.

So after a final pause to collect himself, Killian steps out into the hallway to find David and deliver what feels like the performance of a lifetime.

———

Emma’s mind feels like an ever-expanding, frantic to-do list of items both personal and professional. Honestly, she should probably turn off the former; lord knows she’s got enough to worry about with the show alone. But Neal’s been on her about Thanksgiving ever since Henry declared his intention to stay in town for the parade, despite previous agreements that he’d spend the holiday with Neal and his family. When the show first started gathering buzz, the cast had been asked to perform on the parade broadcast, and Henry is ecstatic at the prospect of actually getting good seats to watch it. They’d tried going once, years ago, but the crowds had been thick despite the cold temperatures, and their view had been somewhat obstructed. Emma doesn’t blame Henry for wanting to stick around to see the parade in person instead of on TV - she’d do the same, and Henry’s own declarations on the subject make it impossible for his dad to really argue about how Emma’s keeping him from his son. 

(It also has the added bonus of Emma getting her kid on the holiday, which she’s not celebrating internally. Not at all.)

But with less than a week left before the holiday and three days before Henry’s birthday, Neal is on her to give him a weekend Henry can come up on the train for a “real family holiday”. His words. As if the dinners Emma and Henry have been attending for years on Thanksgiving with Ruby and Granny and whatever other stragglers they manage to attract don’t count. Asshole.

That’s a later problem, though, because honestly, Emma’s got more than enough on her plate right now. There’s last minute checks of the cameras streaming to backstage and reassuring Arthur that  _ yes, his name has been spelled correctly in the program _ (Arthur King, for God’s sake, it’s not even hard to spell), and of  _ course _ this is the moment that the headsets develop a weird static background noise, which Kristoff  _ really _ needs to fix before the curtain goes up. It’s chaos, in short. Emma can only hope that she looks on the outside like she’s in control because on the inside, she’s panicking a little at the thought of all that needs doing. They’re ready; consciously, she knows this. But it’s hard to remember that when people are filling into the velvet-covered seats for the first time and the only thoughts left in Emma’s head are about all the things that could possibly go wrong.

When the lights go down, though, all those thoughts disintegrate. As backwards as it sounds, the actual show has always been the easy part for Emma. No matter what happens onstage, what’s done is done. If something goes wrong, all she can do is react and try to mitigate any fallout. There’s an odd comfort to that, the sheer transience of this art form. All Emma can do from her perch is call the cues, and leave it to her assistant stage managers to put out fires as necessary.

Thankfully, there’s been none of that tonight. On the crew side of things, the scene changes are running as smooth as butter. Emma’s trained her crew well; she’ll have to buy them all drinks after opening night if this keeps up.

The same can’t quite be said of the cast, however. There’s always nerves associated with the first few performances; Emma’s always thought it’s part of the reason for previews. Killian is visibly tense, however, at least to Emma. He’s been such an outstanding actor during rehearsals that Emma had kind of forgotten exactly how inexperienced he is. He’d essentially been plucked out of chorus and supporting roles and shoved straight into a leading part, this role undeniably his largest to date. It makes sense that he’d be feeling the pressure of that. Even if Emma can spot his nerves from her perch in the booth, she’s not too concerned about the audience picking up on that same discomfort; if they do, they’ll likely write it off as a Darcy mannerism. The character  _ is _ supposed to be socially awkward, famously so. It’ll work.

Emma only hopes his nerves won’t manifest in a more visibly obvious way.

———

Killian hadn’t held much hope that getting on stage would help his nerves, and on that front, he’s not disappointed. If he looks half as uncomfortable onstage as he feels, he must be quite the sight. Knowing that Darcy is supposed to look a little out of place is little consolation. The whole while, he can’t help but feel like a fraud, like someone they just plucked off the street, stuffed him into these fancy clothes, and shoved onto the stage. The weeks and months of preparation don’t matter, the conscious knowledge that he’s prepared for this doesn’t matter; suddenly, the crushing weight of his inexperience smashes him right in the face. And it’s  _ terrifying _ .

He’s making it through, for the most part, reassuring himself the whole while that this will get easier the more he does it. It helps that the first act is much less demanding than the second, with the letter, Pemberley, and all the rest of it occurring after the intermission.

But then, when they hit the Netherfield parlor scene, the worst case scenario happens.

He’s supposed to banter back and forth with Belle about what makes a lady ‘accomplished’, but as soon as he opens his mouth, the words are  _ gone _ . Missing in action. Not to be retrieved by the means of mortals. He’s practiced these words over and over, rehearsed them on this very stage, practiced them with Henry in his dressing room, but that doesn’t matter. He’s forgotten every single one of them, right here in front of an honest-to-god audience.

_ Shit _ .

Killian isn’t really sure how he gets himself out of that mess; he doesn’t have a conscious memory of it. He manages to force out some words, he knows, but he couldn’t tell you what they were. Doubtless the wrong ones. The only thing he’s certain of is that Belle and Regina must have saved his arse back there; he’ll have to send them flowers after he’s inevitably fired for absolute incompetency.

That’s the obvious outcome, he concludes, waiting backstage before his next entrance. Clearly, he can’t handle the barest expectations of his job; the obvious answer is firing. It’s been a nice three months and a performance, now he’ll go live out the rest of his career in shame and obscurity. Maybe find a nice job where he doesn’t ever have to speak in front of people again. Yeah. That sounds nice - not to mention, more appropriate for his obvious lack of public speaking skills.

Somehow, he manages to make it through the rest of the first act without any further snafus - he suspects by sheer fear alone. Even though the applause is suitably loud, he can’t help but feel that it’s not intended for him, and is instead in appreciation of his scene partners or the supporting players. It’s with a heavy heart that he all but slinks offstage during intermission with the full intention to go have a breakdown in the nearest uncluttered corner.

———

Ok, Killian’s little onstage brain fart wasn’t exactly the most convenient thing on Earth. But at the same time, Belle and Regina covered it like the pros they were, and the audience doesn’t seem to have cared. Really, Emma doubts that anyone outside of the production even noticed his goof. Of course, based on her experience with Killian, she also doubts that he knows that, or that it will keep him from beating himself up over it.

Sure enough, they’re barely a minute into intermission - by all accounts, when Emma should get a little break while the rest of the crew sets the stage for the second act - before Mulan calls her over the headset.

“Hey Boss?” she starts, weirdly hesitant. “Jones is off sulking in a corner. He’s not in the way or anything, just… what do you want us to do about him?”

Emma sighs heavily, though she somehow manages to repress the eye roll that’s almost an automatic response by this point in her life. “I’ll be down in a sec to… I don’t know, give him a pep talk or something. Where’s he camped out?”

“In that weird unusable corner backstage left.”

“Ok thanks. Just hold on a moment, and I’ll be right there.”

“Sure thing, Emma.”

She tells herself as she makes her way down the back stairs that it’s all in service of the production, but it’s more personal than that. Killian is her… something. Not paramour or suitor, obviously, but… friend? Maybe? Whatever label he wears, he’s special, and that makes it Emma’s particular duty to build him back up during what is undoubtedly an episode of self-doubt for him. 

Sure enough, he’s right where Mulan said he would be, sitting in what looks to be an uncomfortable position on the low brick ledge at the foot of the wall, head cradled in his hands. Frankly, he makes quite the pathetic picture.

“What’s up with you?” she asks bluntly, causing Killian to jerk his head up in wide-eyed surprise, before deflating just as quickly.

“I’m so sorry, Emma,” he apologizes miserably. “I know I’ve gone and messed the whole thing up. Whatever reprimand you’re about to deliver, I completely understand.”

Emma snorts in response to that self-flagellation. It’s apparent that he’s deep into the self-loathing portion of his evening. “Ok, well, you clearly don’t, because this isn’t that big a deal.”

Killian scoffs, clearly skeptical, though in his costume it has more the effect of a kid throwing a fit on Halloween. “Don’t patronize me, Swan,” he warns.

“I’m not!” she insists. “What do you think previews are for?”

“Publicity,” he states with utter certainty, looking at Emma like  _ she’s _ the one who’s lost her mind.

“Ok, yeah, eventually,” she concedes, “but honestly, they’re mostly about working out the kinks. And your little… incident today is just another kink to iron out.”

“I think that’s selling it short, Swan.”

“I swear, Killian, it’s not. This happens. The beauty of live theater is that what’s done is done - there’s no sense dwelling on it. And honestly, the audience didn’t even notice.”

“You noticed,” he points out obstinately. 

“Yeah, but I’ve read the script, like, twenty thousand times. I have started literally running this show in my sleep. I’m supposed to know when you mess up,” she replies. “Look, that’s not the point. The point is, no one out there cares,” Emma emphasizes, sweeping a hand in the general direction of the house. “A lot of shows take previews as a chance to see what does and doesn’t work in the script, and then change the lines before opening night. Some people literally come to the previews so they can see what changed. If anyone comes back later and notices, they’ll just think it was a script change.”

“Really?” Killian asks, looking up with wide eyes in a manner that’s almost childlike, reminding Emma a little of Henry when he was little and just beginning to discover all the wonderful facts the world had to offer. 

“Really. They’ll think it’s a cool Easter egg, or whatever the kids call it. Now if you’re ready to stop moping around, we’ve got a show to finish. Liam wouldn’t want you to be sulking back here and fixating on things you can’t change.” 

“That’s low, Swan, dragging a man’s brother into this,” he chides, but he’s standing up all the same with the hint of a smile on his face as he attempts to brush the dust off his rear (which Emma does  _ not _ stare at, thank you very much).

“Yeah, well, I did what I had to,” she retorts before continuing in a softer tone. “You’ll be ok? No need to drag someone over to watch you?”

“I’ll be fine, Swan. Now go, you’ve got a show to run, and don’t have time for my nonsense in the least.”

“If you’re sure,” she says, already heading for the back stairs. He’s right; they’re due to start any minute. But she really does think he’ll be alright - can see it in the determined nod he makes to himself before setting off back towards his dressing room to change coats in record time. She hadn’t seen this side of Killian before, the intense self-doubt, but all her experience with his hardworking and easygoing nature suggests he’ll bounce back. 

The show will go on, and Emma thinks she’s even managed to convince Killian of that too.

(She sure hopes so, at least - otherwise, they’re all screwed.)

———

He’s still not fully confident, walking back onstage for the second act, but he does feel slightly better. With Emma’s words in mind, he’s at least able to appreciate that the applause maybe  _ is  _ for him after all - though he’d have to be truly dense to believe the response after his solo was intended for anyone else. Under other circumstances, he might feel guilty that he forgot his brother’s words, or that he instead latched onto the reassurances of his crush, but desperate times had called for desperate measures, and words of wisdom are appreciated from any and every corner.

Killian’s not sure if it’s the change in attitude or just a change in perspective that causes it, but the second act really does feel like it goes better. With Emma’s reassurance that the audience has no idea when things go wrong ringing in his ears, paired with the freshly remembered promise Liam extracted from him to not get too stuck in his own head, Killian is able to reclaim some of the illusion that things are just like in rehearsals, without the pressure of a paying audience. It certainly can’t be called a perfect show, but he likes to think that he and Belle made for an engaging onstage couple and salvaged the mistakes from the first half.

The audience certainly seems to agree, if the curtain call applause is anything to go by. Belle, of course, receives the largest round of applause - deservedly so, if you ask Killian - but he receives his own share of whistles and cheers. The sound of their audience’s response fills Killian with a warm glow of pride in what he’s accomplished, even despite the rough start, and helps him remember why he started on this adventure in the first place.

After everyone’s taken their bows, the cast raises their arms towards the booth in the traditional thanks for the crew’s efforts. It a compulsory gesture, one countless productions have repeated day in and day out, but it’s entirely heartfelt on Killian’s behalf - especially after the reassurance Emma offered him at intermission. He’ll thank her later with his words, but for now, he stares towards the bright lights and the woman he knows is there, even if he can’t see her, and hopes she understands just how deep his thanks truly run.

———

Despite any proverbial rough seas, Emma’s pleased with how the first preview went. Yes, there’s still plenty that needs working on, but this whole thing is intended as a learning curve, and she has faith that by the time the show formally opens, they’ll have smoothed everything out to a seamless final product. She’ll make it happen.

In the meantime, there’s still plenty to do. The stage has already been reset, and the stagehands dismissed for the night (though Emma thinks she caught a glimpse of Will Scarlet hanging around a few minutes ago, likely he’s stuck around for reasons more personal than professional), but Emma likes to double check everything, just in case. Call it a personal habit, one leftover from her own stagehand days. Plus, she likes to take a quick breeze through the dressing rooms to make sure nothing important got left behind - or, god forbid, on the floor, where Ms. Blue will make that clicky noise about how no one is taking proper care of her costumes. Emma would like to avoid that outcome if at all possible - somehow that tiny woman is deceptively intimidating.

She thinks Kristoff might still be around here somewhere, messing with the mics and whatever else he does - some aspects of sound design and tech are still a real mystery to Emma - so she detours to Dorothy’s perch on stage right to grab her wireless headset before wandering back to the dressing rooms. Kristoff mostly managed to fix the static before curtain, but there was still an annoying little buzz the whole time. He probably already knows about it and it’s on his own personal to-do list, but Emma figures that bringing the devices to him wouldn’t hurt. A helping hand and a reminder all in one, if you will. It’s well within her authority anyways.

She never makes it to the podium, however, as Jones suddenly steps out from the hallway to the dressing rooms, dressed once again in his street clothes. As much as she’s ogled him in costume, Emma has to admit - he’s just as good-looking in a henley and plaid. It was just as true before she saw him in costume for the first time, but knowing how well those breeches display his ass just adds another level of appreciation for that same ass in jeans.

“Can I speak with you for a moment, Swan?” he requests.

“Yeah, of course,” she replies. “Is here fine, or…?” There’s no one around, but still, if he wants to have any sort of official, job-related private discussion, they should probably go find a room with a door and no chance of interruptions.

“Oh, yes, here’s just fine,” he smiles, as if he read her mind. “I just wanted to thank you, Swan, for earlier.”

“Oh, that isn’t necessary —” Emma begins, but Killian firmly interrupts her, hand raised in a halting motion.

“It is to me,” he insists. “You may not think you provided much of a service, but to me, your words were...indispensable. Just what I needed in that moment. You may not have noticed, Swan,” he chuckles, “but I was a bit of a mess back there.”

Despite his heavy words to start the sentence, his self-deprecating teasing at the end lends some needed levity to the exchange, allowing Emma to relax ever-so-slightly despite her continuing discomfort with being thanked.

“Yeah, maybe a little bit,” she laughs, causing a wide smile to break out on his face. God, it’s a nice smile. Goes great with those street clothes she was checking out a minute ago.

“Oi, thanks for that,” he teases. “I can say that, you can’t.” An attempt at a wink follows, making Emma laugh in turn. It’s hard not to - his idea of a wink is closer to a facial spasm, both eyes closing instead of one and eyebrows doing the work of mimicking a wink. “My point is, I needed a little kick in the pants. Thank you for doing so kindly and gracefully.”

Emma snorts. “‘Gracefully’? That seems a bit far.”

“Well I don’t know,” he defends. “You were fairly tactful about it. Or at least didn’t directly tell me to pull my head out of my arse. I’d call that a graceful approach.”

Honestly, it’s hard to take his defense seriously when he phrases it like that. The barely suppressed smile, still evident in the creases around his eyes, doesn’t help either. “Still,  _ graceful _ ?” she demands. “That’s, like the last word I’d associate with myself.”

“I don’t know, Swan,  _ I _ certainly think you live up to your namesake,” Killian responds, far more earnestly than Emma would have expected. Is that really how he sees her? That’s… weird, but there’s something nice about that knowledge too. It’s comforting to know that at least one person who’s not her kid thinks so highly of her.

“Is there anything else you need?” she asks, quickly changing the subject. If Killian’s face falls a little bit at the end of their bantering - because  _ God _ , that’s what it was, wasn’t it? - then Emma pretends not to notice. Or care.

“Er, no. That’ll do it. Again, thank you.” There’s a moment of empty silence before he nods resolutely. “Have a good evening, Swan.” And just like that, he’s gone again.

Emma’s struck with a small pang of guilt over his sudden departure. They were kind of having a moment, after all, before she abruptly cut it short. But it’s for the best, isn’t it? Keep the professional boundaries, and not get too close?

No, the thing to remember about today is  _ not _ two emotionally vulnerable conversations with Killian, but how well the show went, and how much the audience liked it. That’s it. End of story.

(Even if those blue eyes are wide enough to get lost in, and his ass really  _ does _ look great in a variety of pants.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Killian is the biggest drama queen, and obviously won't be fired. Rest assured - it'll be much smoother sailing on the acting front from here on out. Next week: the Thanksgiving parade!
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my beta, @snidgetsafan. She is very honestly the best. Go check out her fantastic stuff, you won't regret it.
> 
> Also posted on tumblr - I'm @shireness-says. Come say hi.
> 
> If you liked this, consider leaving kudos, comments, or feedback - they're my bread and butter. Thanks much to those who have already!
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope to see you next week!


	9. Chapter 8: Before the Parade Passes By

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving has, literally, come early! You're in for a fun one. I know nothing about how parade set-up works, so, you know, suspend your disbelief. Thanks.
> 
> Just to reiterate: this fic will be a SLOW BURN. I know we're all anxious for Emma and Killian to get together, but she's still pretty hesitant due to the fact that they work together (and she in a position of power over him!). Plus, her ex really likes to remind her how men are dicks. Yay. Hang in there, guys; there is a plan, and the plan is for 20 chapters, unless I unexpectedly add another.
> 
> Chapter title taken from "Hello, Dolly!"
> 
> Enjoy!

Henry’s birthday this year falls conveniently three days before Thanksgiving, on a dark Monday when there’s no show to pull Emma away from her kid. Well, that’s not strictly true; she has to go in for a few hours so everyone can rehearse their parade performance, but that should start after he goes to school and wrap up before he gets out. It’s not like they’re doing new choreography or anything, just making sure everything is as polished as possible. Regardless, work won’t be keeping her from her kid on his birthday, and she’s grateful for that.

Henry’s birthday party was yesterday, Sunday - 6 boys and 2 girls at the Lucky Strike for bowling, a perennial hit - but Granny’s hosting a family birthday dinner at the diner with Ruby, Mary Margaret and Elsa. It’s a long-standing tradition, and every year Granny makes all of Henry’s favorite foods and a big, gooey chocolate cake as everyone showers the birthday boy with more love than he can handle. Honestly, Neal can stick his bullshit about “ _ real _ family dinners” up his ass - Henry’s got the best aunts imaginable and Granny’s been there since he was born. If you ask Emma, that’s all the family the two of them need.

It’s so hard to believe that it’s been eleven years since Henry was born. She still remembers his tiny, wrinkly red face like it was yesterday - this little, precious baby, the first thing that was truly  _ hers _ . Now he’s half grown, his own person, smart as hell and sweet to boot.  _ He’s growing so fast _ , she can’t help but think as she watches him practically inhale a stack of chocolate chip pancakes, his requested birthday breakfast, and talking a mile a minute in a recap of his party yesterday.  _ Where has the time gone? _

Emma remains in an introspective mood much of the day, thinking back on when her little boy was younger. God, he was so cute - not that he isn’t now, but there’s something about that gap-toothed look that was especially endearing. It keeps her distracted at work, but thankfully, there’s not much that requires her undivided attention. Her cast is just running their choreography for Thursday - the opening number, “In Want of a Wife”, should be a hit, Emma thinks - so she takes the opportunity to re-pencil some of the cues in her script that have gotten smudged over weeks of opening and closing the pages. If she has trouble focusing on that, it’s not such a big deal.

The hours fly by, much to Emma’s surprise, and before she knows it, they’re packing up to leave. Emma just needs to send out a detailed itinerary for Thursday, probably print out a stack for good measure, but then she’s free for the rest of the day and can actually pick her kid up from school for once. That’ll be a nice change of pace. Just as she’s making the final edits to her email, she’s startled by Killian’s sudden appearance.

“Fuck, you scared me,” she mutters, eliciting an embarrassed chuckle from Killian to match his suddenly pink-tinged cheeks and the signature scratching behind his ear.

“My apologies, love,” he smiles. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just hoping you might give this to Henry,” he explains further, thrusting a carefully gift-wrapped package in Emma’s direction.

Emma raises an eyebrow in question. It’s sweet of him, and certainly generous, but also a little weird that one of her coworkers is sending gifts home for her kid - even if he and said kid are, admittedly, friends-ish. “Should I be concerned about this?”

“Oh no! I don’t think so, at least. It’s just a notebook. For him to write in? I’ve heard so much about how he likes writing and wants to be a playwright, I just thought this would be a nice place to write all those thoughts down,” he babbles. Emma thinks she can detect a thread of nerves in his voice. “Of course, if you think I’m overstepping, that’s completely fine, it was just an idea, the lad had mentioned that it was his birthday and I just thought — ”

“No, that’s fine,” Emma replies, suddenly resolute despite her earlier confusion. Killian means well, and honestly, that is kind of the perfect gift for Henry. “I’m sure he’ll love it. Thanks.”

“Ah, well, it wasn’t a bother in the least,” he deflects, the pink cheeks making a reappearance in a sudden attack of bashfulness. 

“Killian. You got a gift for my son. Let me say thank you. Now, what do you say when someone thanks you?”

“You’re welcome,” he parrots back.

“Well done.” While her words could have been taken in a patronizing manner, Jones still grins at her, seemingly pleased with their banter (despite the fact that it isn’t the first time they’ve had this kind of back and forth - or at least Emma doesn’t think so). “Ok, well, I’ve got to meet the birthday boy at school,” she concludes, jerking a thumb towards the general not-here, “but I’ll make sure he gets your gift and knows it’s from you.”

“Thank you, Swan. And a happy birthday to Henry!”

———

Henry loves the notebook, of course, telling Emma all about all the stories he intends to write in it. She suspects that Killian will receive the same treatment the next time Henry sees him as well.

The days between Monday and Thursday pass faster than Emma ever thought possible, so fast she wonders in passing whether they ever happened at all - though if her notepads are any indication, they certainly did. Thanksgiving dawns bright and clear but cold, pulling Emma out of her bed earlier than she wants. That’s fine, though; she didn’t really sleep much the night before, too busy running through lists in her head of everything that could go right and  _ especially _ everything that could go wrong. It doesn’t help that she’d had a late night before she climbed into bed either, having trekked from the theater to Macy’s with the stuff they’ll need for the parade. There’s just a chair and a couple of hedges - not to mention the racks of costumes and boxes of wigs carefully supervised by the costume department - but this gives her a chance as well to check out the space set aside for the cast to get ready. Not to mention, Emma would much rather deal with transport the night before than fighting through the madness Thanksgiving morning. It’s going to be enough of a pain getting to Macy’s this morning with all the crowds milling about; there’s no way in hell she would willingly add bulky equipment to that mix.

The good news is that Henry’s so excited about the whole affair that he all but flies out of bed without needing to be nagged like she’d have to on a regular school day. It’s probably a mistake to give him a pack of pop-tarts for breakfast - lord knows he doesn’t need the extra sugar rush on top of his already excessive energy level. But they’re in a rush today, and she doesn’t have time for much else, not even a bowl of cereal. Robin doesn’t have to work today - performing outdoors for tv crews doesn’t leave much need for a lighting technician and designer - but he’s there with Roland anyways in the section set aside for production members if they want it, and he agreed previously to keep an eye on Henry while Emma works. Hopefully he doesn’t come to regret that.

Emma figures she’ll get to Macy’s before anyone else, but Belle’s already inside, practically vibrating with nervous excitement, and Emma spots Ruby helping a few of the chorus members with their wigs. Though Belle’s still in her street clothes, her hair and makeup are already done, leaving Emma to wonder exactly how long the brunette has been here.

“You alright?” she asks, more in amusement than genuine concern. Belle’s a trooper; Emma has full confidence that whatever nerves are playing through Belle’s head right now, she’ll power through like the pro she is. Still, it feels like the thing to ask when you find a key player in your production bouncing on the balls of her feet like an Easter rabbit who showed up for the wrong holiday.

Belle whips around, eyes blown wide with surprise at Emma’s little interruption. Too late, Emma realizes that their Elizabeth must have been lost in her own little world, and was likely given quite a shock. As Emma pulls a contrite face, Belle’s own visage softens into a slightly embarrassed smile.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” Belle assures. “This is mostly excitement, I promise.”

Emma throws her hands up in the universal sign for backing off. “I can understand that. Just wanted to make sure. Walking in you looked at little…”

“On edge?” Belle offers. “There’s a hint of that as well.”

Emma laughs. “Well that’s fine too.”

“It really struck me last night what an institution this is,” Belle elaborates, hastily adding “And I’m thrilled to be a part of it! But it was a little… daunting, remembering that legacy. And we’re going to be  _ part _ of that, after today,” she concludes, voice echoing with traces of awe.

“Oh, don’t I know it,” Emma replies, before making an attempt to lighten the conversation. “You should see Henry outside, he’s  _ ecstatic _ . It’s been helping my nerves a bit, honestly,” she admits, “seeing how excited he is, his conviction that we’re going to be the stars of the whole thing.”

“He’s a good kid,” Belle smiles back. “You’ve raised him well.”

Even if it’s true, even if it fills her with a glowing pride that’s reserved especially for Henry, Emma never knows how to respond to such a compliment, so she deflects. “Yeah, well, he’s right outside with Robin and Roland and a disgusting amount of bagels if you want to borrow him. Steal a little bit of that confidence for yourself, if you need it.”

Belle laughs, seemingly accepting the words as they were intended - an emotional de-escalator. “I just might have to. At the very least, I should go say hi. Right outside, you said?”

“Yep, to the left near the heaters. He’ll be the one talking a million miles a minute.”

“Should be easy enough to find,” Belle twinkles back, offering a final wave as she heads to presumedly find her coat before setting foot beyond the doors.

From there, it’s a blur of preparations and quieting mini-crises that turn out not to be the end of the world. Honestly, her file box is filled with so many random odds and ends at this point, but it’s days like today, where everyone’s common sense and operational memory is clouded by nerves, that those things pay off. Even if it’s her first time at the parade, this isn’t her first rodeo; she’s learned a few things over the years, and how to prepare for so-called disasters is one of them.

Truthfully, she had expected to be talking Jones down from another breakdown the whole while, but he’s surprisingly cool as a cucumber, acting like none of it affects him in the least. Someone ought to be, at least, because Emma is internally freaking out a little bit - not over the actual mechanics of the performance, but over the knowledge of what a cultural institution they’re about to be a part of. It adds a certain amount of pressure, and even if Emma is confident that they can shoulder it with ease, she still feels the weight on all their shoulders.

Miraculously, the performance actually goes well. In fact, if Emma were to borrow a few of Killian’s fancy words, she might say that they pulled it off with aplomb. “In Want of a Wife” isn’t Emma’s favorite number - she prefers the ballroom scenes with their intricate whirling that shows off the costuming so well - but it’s a great introductory bit, and gives a great peek of the characters the audience will come to love, hate, and everything in between. The cast is in particularly fine form this morning; Emma can see Killian shift into Darcy’s uptight persona the moment the makeshift stage is in sight, and Belle exudes the perfect believable combination of curiosity and exasperation at the scheming of Mrs. Bennet and the Meryton neighborhood as a whole. Yes, there’s a few pitch issues - nothing major or particularly egregious, just the normal effects you’d find in temperatures barely above freezing - but overall, she’s quite pleased with their efforts.

Without cues to call or crew members to direct, Emma’s left without much to do during the performance itself. She’s already seen the show countless times, and will likely do so countless times more, so she instead takes the opportunity to find Henry in the crowd to watch his reactions to the action in front of him. In short, Henry looks enthralled, pointing out things to Roland as the four-year-old bounces with an energy only preschoolers can maintain. Emma longingly thinks in passing that she’d love to hear what Henry is saying, but reassures herself with the knowledge that she’ll likely get the full replay when she meets up with him afterwards.

In the meantime, she’ll turn her mind to the work still to come.

———

_ Well done, little brother!  _ his phone reads when Killian retrieves his street clothes, accompanied by an array of celebratory emojis. Killian’s heart swells with pride at his brother's words, even if he does slightly regret introducing the old man to emojis. Lord knows he’ll never get a plain normal text message again. 

There had been a general awareness, in the middle of the singing and choreography and concentrating on being as impressive as possible while also frowning ferociously, of the spectacle of the whole thing. Killian had been aware that the roaring sound was the crowd, not just the blood rushing through his ears, though he hadn’t focused on it at the time, too concerned with hitting his marks to allow himself to process much else.

Now though, as he goes to exit the department store and is faced with the full force of the crowd, it’s astounding. It seems the citizens of New York - and likely half the country to boot - have turned out in force, forming a mass of people exuding an almost palpable energy of excitement. It stops him in his tracks for a moment, right outside the revolving door with little awareness of the chill biting his ears.

He’s no idea how long he stands there, really, before he’s suddenly startled out of his shocked trance by a shockingly close voice, jaw snapping shut with a clack.

“Hey, Earth to Killian,” Emma grins. “Did you get lost in there?”

“Aye, maybe a little,” Killian admits with a chuckle. “I didn’t hear you come up.”

“Sorry if I scared you, I’ve been doing that today without meaning it.”

“It’s fine, Swan,” he waves her off. “Did you need something?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” she says, shaking her head in a hasty denial. “You just looked stuck there. Stuck and struck, if you want to play with words.”

“Oh, I think we both know how I feel about playing with words,” he winks.

Emma rolls her eyes, but also bumps into his side companionably, so the expression is rather negated. “ _ Anyway _ ,” she continues pointedly, “I thought I’d come see if you wanted to come watch the rest of the parade with me and Henry. I’m sure he’s got  _ plenty _ of commentary about the performance.” The last bit is hastily added, as if in justification, but Killian doesn’t need any further convincing. 

“I’d love to,” he smiles, attempting to muster every ounce of sincerity he possesses. “Lead on, Swan.”

As promised, Henry is ready with a full recap, stretching longer than the actual performance lasted. Killian catches Robin’s eye over Henry’s wild gesticulating, the lighting designer clearly struggling to hold back laughter as his shoulders shake with the effort.

“If you couldn’t tell, Henry very much enjoyed your performance,” Robin relates in as serious a tone as he can muster, causing Killian to suppress his own snort. 

“We’ve got the best spot, you’re going to love it,” Henry assures, completely ignoring Robin’s comment as he grabs Killian’s hand to forcibly force him into a seat. “Have you seen the parade before? I mean, probably not in person - even Mom and I have only done it once when I was, like, five or six, and we missed half of it because we couldn’t get close enough. But we watch it on TV every year! Do you?”

It’s a lot to keep up with, but Killian does his best. “I’ve only seen a little, so this will be like my first time watching it. They don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in England, so Liam and I usually just enjoy the day off and don’t do much.” Honestly, he thinks Liam might sleep through the parade most years, but Henry doesn’t need to know that. Such blatant lack of festivity might break the lad’s heart, he suspects, if the current level of enthusiasm is anything to go on.

“We’ll just have to show you then,” Henry replies decisively, nodding to seal his declaration.

Indeed.

Henry proves to be quite the narrator, providing commentary on seemingly every float or balloon that passes by. Killian is particularly impressed by the balloons, floating far above the street in an almost otherworldly spectacle. 

“Spiderman’s my favorite,” Henry offers, “but Mom likes Snoopy best.”

Killian turns just in time to see the woman in question shrug. “What can I say, I like the classics,” she explains. “Except the pilgrims. Those inflated heads are friggin’ creepy, and always look like they’re about to tip over.”

(She’s got a point.)

In the meantime, Henry’s mind finally catches up with some of Killian’s earlier words. “Wait,” he says, “you and your brother don’t celebrate Thanksgiving?”

“No?”

“So you’re not having a Thanksgiving dinner?”

“Not everyone does, Henry,” Emma reminds her son. 

“Yeah, but he’s  _ alone _ on Thanksgiving. That just seems wrong.”

“I don’t know, lad, I wouldn’t call this big crowd  _ alone _ ,” Killian reasons.

“Yeah, but what are you doing after this?”

The lad’s got him there. “Ah… well, I was planning on going home and heating up a bit to eat. Maybe order some Chinese takeout, if I can find a place that’s open.”

Henry stares at him at those words, wearing an expression Killian can only describe as being one of pure horror. “You can’t!”

“I’ll see if I have the makings for a deli turkey sandwich, if that makes you feel any better,” Killian offers to a stunned silence. 

“Or you could just come to dinner with us,” Emma offers.

Killian’s head snaps around to meet her eyes. “Oh no, Swan, I couldn’t possibly intrude,” he protests, but Emma’s already waving off his attempts.

“Really, it wouldn’t be a hassle. Granny usually makes enough to feed 20,” she explains. “I mean, let me give her a call to make sure, but I don’t think she’d have a problem with it. If you want to come, that is, I don’t want to pressure you into anything,” she hastens to add, but there’s no need for that.

“I’d be honored,” he smiles.

———

God, what was she  _ thinking _ , inviting Killian to Thanksgiving dinner? 

Well, she knows what she was thinking, totally focused on making her kid happy and wiping that horrified look off his face. Plus, you know, it wouldn’t exactly be a hardship, inviting Jones to dinner. He’s pleasant company, and chatty enough to fit in with all the rest of the maniacs crammed into Granny’s. Plus, he’d already know everyone, Ruby and Mary Margaret from the show and Granny from Emma’s birthday party. It certainly wouldn’t be the fiasco she’s currently inflating it into.

Granny had been more than agreeable to Killian joining them. “Of course he can come,” she said. “He’s a sweet boy. Hell, invite some of the other Thanksgiving orphans in the show if you want, Lord knows we’ve got enough to feed them all. As long as they bring booze to share.”

With Granny’s blessing, Belle had graciously accepted the extended invitation along with Killian, and Emma suspects that if Scarlet ever checks his phone and sees that his little crush is coming, he’ll join in too. Robin already has plans, taking Roland to Thanksgiving with his maternal family - “It’s the least I can do, now that his mother’s gone” - but there’s tentative plans to swing by later for pie, if timing permits.

The plan is to serve the meal at three, so all attending have been sternly instructed by the lady of the kitchen to arrive between two and two-thirty, drinks in hand. Of course, all attending just means their unexpected guests - Ruby and Emma are both expected earlier to help with the meal as needed, though in Emma’s case that mostly means putting stuff other people made into the oven and setting the table. When Granny runs out of things for Emma to stir - seriously, even  _ Henry _ is trusted to do more in the kitchen - she’s banished to the dining room to act as a welcome committee for whenever their guests arrive. 

Honestly, it’s a little too much time spent with her own thoughts. Emma invited Killian for the same reason she invited everyone else - she didn’t want him to have to be alone on for the holiday. That’s it. She doesn’t need to be worried for this, like it’s some  _ date _ ; it’s just a bunch of friends having dinner together. As friends.

That doesn’t keep her heart from jumping into her throat for a moment when Killian shows up at precisely 2:04 in the afternoon with a full bottle of red wine under one arm and an already opened bottle of rum under the other.

“I hope that’s alright,” he says. “The wine was a gift, so I’m not sure how good it is, but the rum is my own so I knew that would be palatable.”

“Yeah, that’s great. We can put those behind the counter if you want. Or back in the fridge, though I don’t really think either needs it, but hey, what do I know? Though they’re probably pretty cold already from the trip here — ”

“I promise, the counter is fine, Swan,” Killian laughs. As he moves to leave them on the laminate top, he leans in to whisper in her ear. “Relax, love. Don’t overthink it.”

“Easy for you to say,” Emma mutters, but Killian doesn’t hear her, already moving to greet Granny where she’s poked her head out of the kitchen. 

“Thank you for permitting me to join your undoubtedly spectacular Thanksgiving feast, Mrs. Lucas,” he says with seemingly every ounce of formality he possesses. It’s funny to watch, Emma has to admit, especially knowing Granny and Ruby will disabuse him of that notion shortly. 

“Enough of that,” she tells him briskly. “Now set down those bottles and come help, we need an extra set of hands.”

Emma can breathe easier with Killian in the kitchen as she turns back to setting the table. It doesn’t hurt, either, that the rest of the afternoon’s guests start trickling in not long after. Belle manages to arrive not ten minutes after Killian, cheeks pink from the chill, and Scarlet shortly after 2:30 with a case of cheap beer in hand.

Shockingly, it’s Mary Margaret who leaves them waiting the longest, everything but the bird itself already having been set on the table before she finally shows up. Her delay is easily excused, though, as she arrives hand-in-hand with David Nolan and red, chapped lips.

“I knew it!” Ruby crows from the table before smacking Henry in the arm. “Pay up.”

“Are you teaching my kid to bet, Ruby?” Emma calls, trying to infuse her voice with disappointed incredulity.

“Please, it’s five bucks,” she dismisses. “And it was his idea, for the record.”

“Hey Mom, do you have five bucks?” Henry grins across the table, causing a loud guffaw from Scarlet and what Emma thinks was a muffled snort from Killian. Figures.

“Hey, you got yourself into this mess, kid, you can get yourself out of it. This is what you get for betting that Co-Captains Obvious weren’t dating.”

“Oh, I still thought they were dating,” Henry clarifies. “I just thought that they’d hide it until New Year’s.”

That gets the whole table laughing, even Emma, as Mary Margaret tries to sit down with as much dignity as she can muster and a barely suppressed smile on her face. “If you all are  _ quite done _ ,” she says primly, “then yes, David and I have been seeing each other for the last couple of weeks. And I’m very happy about it.” She takes the moment to smile at her paramour, the picture of lovesick serenity. “And he is too. Now, can we start dinner before everything gets cold?”

“Don’t think you’re getting off that easy, girlie,” Granny warns, the affection clear in her voice. “But we’ll put it aside for the moment. Serve yourself, everyone, I’m the cook not the waiter.”

As the room dissolves into laughter and conversation, everyone attempting to grab for their favorites, Emma leans over to whisper in Mary Margaret’s ear. “I  _ am _ happy for you, you know, all bets aside.”

“Thanks, Emma,” the pixie-haired brunette beams back. “I’m happy too.”

Emma probably shouldn’t be surprised, but despite all the last minute additions, it still feels like a proper family dinner, not the hodge-podge of people it technically is. Of course, Killian is right in the middle of it all, trading innuendos with Ruby, patiently listening to Henry tell about seemingly every past Thanksgiving he’s ever celebrated, and gently ribbing David and Mary Margaret - but mostly David - about their budding relationship. Honestly, she could picture another holiday spent in his company, would welcome it in fact.

(With everyone else too, of course. Purely as friends. Because when you stumble across a good thing, why mess with it?)

——— 

Killian misses Liam’s first call that night, too busy trying to wrestle the mountain of Thanksgiving leftovers Granny sent him home with into the fridge, and almost misses the second, the device buzzing precariously close to the edge before he executes an impressive dive to snatch the phone off the counter in time.

“Hello?” he manages to gasp out, slightly out of breath from his dramatic grab.

“Am I interrupting something?” Liam asks, amusement coloring his voice. “I just wanted to call and congratulate you on the parade again, but do I need to call back later? Or tomorrow perhaps?”

“No, no, not really. It’s fine. What’s up?”

“‘Not really’? Not to pry, but I thought you were set up for a quiet day in after the parade. Did you have plans I didn’t know about?”

“Not that you knew about, no,” Killian hedges, “but I ended up having a late lunch with some people from the show.”

“Oh? Anyone I know?” Liam asks, a little too genuinely. The bastard probably already knows exactly what happened without even being told. Some days, Killian wonders if there’s some kind of psychic power associated with being a big brother.

“Oh, you know. Belle. David and Mary Margaret - they’re dating now, as it turns out. No one is particularly shocked. Will Scarlet put in an appearance - he’s the one who’s got his sights set on Belle. A few others. Anyhow, did you have an eventful day?” Killian attempts to breeze right over the fact that he spent his holiday with Emma’s family, essentially, but doubts it was very effective an effort.

“Oh no no no, little brother,” Liam redirects, laughing right over Killian’s muttered protest of  _ younger, Liam, younger _ . “I see what you’re doing.  _ A few others? _ One of those ‘few others’ wouldn’t happen to be your lady and her boy, would they?”

“Still not my lady,” Killian reminds Liam. Honestly, it’s getting a little old - especially since Liam was one of the voices telling him that maybe it wouldn’t be such a brilliant idea to ask Emma out in the first place. “But yes, they might have been there.”

“Might have been?”

“Ok, they were there. In fact, Emma was the one that invited me. They always spend Thanksgiving, and most holidays I think, with one of the costume assistants and her grandmother. Happy?”

“Quite.” It’s impossible to miss the smug note in Liam’s voice. “So, tell me,” he continues, “how was Thanksgiving dinner?” It’s so easy in Killian’s mind’s eye to picture Liam leaning forward with his chin propped in his hands, the universal sign for sarcastic attention. Wanker.

“No. I’m not telling you if you’re going to be a horse’s arse about it.”

“Oh c’mon, Killy,” Liam wheedles, but Killian’s having none of it.

“No, I’m serious. I appreciate your advice when I need it, but not when I have to deal with your relentless teasing the rest of the time! It makes me not want to tell you things, honestly.”

“Ok, ok, I’m sorry,” Liam concedes. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m sorry,  _ younger _ brother,” he emphasizes, as if to underline just how genuine he’s being. “Would you like to talk about your day - or at least the dinner part of it? I’m a willing ear if you want it. Otherwise, I’d love to hear about the parade.”

Killian considers telling Liam no, flat-out, but the truth is he kind of does want to rehash the day, share his excitement and enthusiasm over his first  _ real _ Thanksgiving (not the vaguely British facsimile he and his brother half-assed, to borrow a phrase, their first few years on this side of the pond). That doesn’t mean he’s going to make it easy on his brother; no, after the teasing he’s been subjected to, he deserves a little taunting of his own - at least by way of leaving Liam in suspense for a while.

“The parade was  _ amazing _ , Liam, every minute of it. Watching it on TV doesn’t give you any idea of the sheer spectacle of it all,” Killian says, gushing a little bit despite any intentions he might have had about acting like an adult on the phone. It’s far too late for that; the grin stretching his face at the mere memory of the day’s festivities is proof positive of that. “I must have looked like a fool in the crowd afterwards, just grinning like a madman, but  _ Gods _ , Liam, I’ve never seen anything like it. Even for New York standards, the crowds were huge, and everyone was just buzzing with excitement. I swear, I’ve never experienced anything like it.”

“Well you were amazing, Killian,” Liam replies warmly. “I’m so proud of you. I’m tempted to go find a YouTube video of the performance and email it to everyone I know, like some kind of obnoxious parent.”

“Well, that seems a bit excessive,” he comments dryly, “but I take your point. It really felt like we were one organism today, you know? All moving as once to execute the best performance we could.”

“Trust me, Killian, it showed. I’ll be shocked if that appearance doesn’t exponentially increase the buzz around the show.”

Killian could drag this out, describe each balloon in detail, exactly where and how they prepared inside of Macy’s, precisely how cold it was to the tenth of a degree with excruciating attention to which specific fingers and toes felt the chill, but he takes pity on Liam instead. He’s behaved, even though Killian knows he’s dying to hear about dinner. “Somehow, the Swans found out that I was planning to go back and microwave a meal in my apartment - Henry insisted we watch the parade together - so they invited me along to their own plans. Which kind of spiraled out into inviting several of the other Brits without plans. It was truly lovely, Liam,” he exudes, really getting into the recounting. “I swear, Mrs. Lucas cooked enough food to feed half of Manhattan. Henry swears she does this every year, and likely didn’t even have to cook any extra when Swan called about extra seats at the table. Though I doubt that last part.”

“Sounds like a regular feast,” Liam comments, chuckling.

“Oh, you have no idea. I missed your first call, and nearly the second, because I was trying to stack all the tupperware I was sent home with into the fridge. What do they call it? Fridge tetris?”

Liam barks out a laugh at that. “Aye, I think that’s the technical term. That much food?”

“That much. And Mrs. Lucas was sending it home with everyone, I wasn’t a special charity case. The whole affair was so lovely, really, I’ve never seen — ” Killian stops abruptly. “No teasing, you promise? Even if you think me some kind of ridiculous lovestruck fool?”

“No teasing,” Liam swears. “Even if you’re carrying on like a lovestruck fool. I’ll sit here and listen attentively and supportively, I promise.”

If they were having this conversation in person, Killian would toss his brother a skeptical look, but since that’s not an option, he plows on ahead. “I really understood the whole thing first-hand for the first time, you know? I mean, you can hear about how this is a holiday for families as much as you want, or see it on television or in the movies, but it doesn’t really sink in until you’re sitting in the middle of it. There was so much sheer affection at that table, Liam. And I’ve never seen Emma so at ease.” He pauses for breath, taking the opportunity to collect his thoughts. “I’m aware that that doesn’t really mean much, considering our relatively short acquaintance, but still. She was comfortable, in a casual way I haven’t previously associated with her. Like that was her place, in some kind of deep and emotional and cliche way. Does that make sense?”

“She looked at home,” Liam supplies, putting the words right in Killian’s mouth.

“Yes! Exactly. I know I must sound silly - this is where the lovestruck fool bit comes in, so please, contain yourself - but it’s nice, being able to discover these new sides to Swan that I don’t see every day. Charming. Wonderful. Some other word more expressive than nice.” Killian stops himself before he gets too far. “I’m babbling.”

“A little bit.”

“Kind of you to downplay it.”

“Anytime.”

They both laugh at that. Technically, the comments break Liam’s vow not to tease him, but their spirit certainly doesn’t, so Killian lets it pass.

“So you had a great day?” Liam asks.

“The best. Enough about me, though, what about you, how was your Thanksgiving? Sorry I didn’t call earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it, brother. My day was much more low-key than yours. Dropped by to have a few beers with a couple other ex-pats from the film, but that’s about it. Honestly, watching you in the parade was the highlight.”

Killian blushes at the words. “You don’t have to say that,” he mumbles, but Liam can probably hear the smile in his voice anyway.

“I only say it because it’s true,” his elder brother promises.

“Thanks, Liam.”

Conversation turns towards more general topics eventually, not that Killian minds. He loves these calls with his brother, even if he was a bit late to this particular one.

“Christ, it must be getting late for you,” Liam finally says. He’s not wrong - they’ve been on the phone for almost an hour, and in that time it’s gotten quite dark outside. “I’ll let you go - I’ll have to be up early tomorrow anyways.” It’s a half-assed excuse and they both know it, especially since Killian is pretty sure he’s the only one who has to work tomorrow.

“Are you sure?” he asks, even though he’s sure of the answer. Big Brother Liam, still trying to make sure little Killy goes to bed on time and brushes his teeth.

“Go on. We’ll talk later,” Liam replies, absolutely certain. Who is Killian to argue with that?

“Alright, well, Happy Thanksgiving, Liam.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, little -  _ younger _ brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least someone is being open about their relationship, right? God bless Snowing, they're so obvious. And we got some fun CS interactions in there too! I love these family chapters, don't you?
> 
> Special thanks to @snidgetsafan, my wonderful beta, and @distant-rose, who talked through lots of bowling alleys with me so I could make one tiny reference. Y'all are the best, I swear.
> 
> Thank you to all of you who have left kudos and comments on this! Keep it up - I love hearing from you guys!
> 
> Also posted on tumblr; I'm @shireness-says. Come for the fic, stay for the sporadic CS and art history posts.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I'll see you next week!


	10. Chapter 9: You Never Say "Good Luck" on Opening Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here - opening night! I'm excited to share this with you - there's a lot of good stuff coming up this chapter (especially if you're a person who's been enjoying the side friendships/relationships). Title taken from "The Producers" - though my beta did recommend subtitling this "CS's obsession with how the other looks in certain pairs of pants", and I don't really disagree with her. It's a running theme.
> 
> Enjoy!

The rest of previews fly by before Killian knows it. He credits at least half of that impression of speed to their ever-increasing crowds; just as Liam had predicted, their visibility gets a noticeable boost after the parade performance, and the amount of people waiting to claim their limited preview tickets had sharply increased. Skyrocketed, even, if one wanted to be less understated (but potentially more accurate). Advance ticket sales are similarly pitching through the roof, which has left Merlin very happy and Jefferson on the front of house staff slightly stressed. Killian has full confidence that he’ll pull through.

Killian tries not to think about it, for the most part. He’s become more and more confident the more he’s performed in front of an audience, but he’s still concerned that if he thinks about it too much, he’ll regress back to that first preview meltdown and completely lose it again. Which would be… less than ideal, to say the least. No one really needs to deal with that, not again (especially not Swan).

Henry is an enormous help in achieving this goal, happily sitting with Killian in his dressing room between afternoon rehearsals and evening shows and running lines over and over again. The lad’s quite good at it, really, recognizing when a prepositional slip can slide and when he needs to really crack down on the exact words in the script. It helps with Killian’s confidence, too, the more he runs the words without incident in these more low-stakes circumstances. Henry will correct him if he gets something wrong, but without the pressure of feeling like the entire show is hinging on him performing without mistake and collapsing if he muddles his words up.

“You need to stop worrying so much,” Henry tells him one day, ever the sage. “You’re way more nervous than you need to be.”

“Yes, well, that’s easy for you to say,” Killian grumbles, though there’s no real anger behind it. If he’s being honest with himself, the lad’s got a point.

“Yeah, well, it’s true,” Henry argues eloquently. “You freak yourself out and then it’s, like… a self-fulfilling prophecy, or whatever. Don’t do that. Don’t fulfill the prophecy!” he declares dramatically.

Killian tilts his head to the side, eyebrows furrowing in suspicion. “Isn’t the point of most prophecy-type fantasy novels and games that you  _ can’t _ escape fate?”

Henry waves the point off. “Yeah, but this is real life, not a fantasy world.”

“I think you may have reached the limit of your analogy then,” Killian snorts, causing Henry to break into a wide grin.

“Yeah, probably.” They probably look like a pair of children - well, younger children, in Henry’s case - grinning at each other at their little joke. Henry proves to be the more mature one however, as he directs them back to the task at hand. “C’mon, try it again,” he cajoles. “Honestly, you’re doing so well, just stop overthinking it.”

(And would you believe it, on the next run through, he doesn’t have to be corrected once.)

———

Emma would say that it’s a relief to make it to opening night, except for the fact that  _ that’s _ when the nerves finally kick in. For absolutely no reason, since things are going so well. Not to mention, it’s not like opening night is that significant in anything but title; they’ve already technically been having performances in the form of previews, and the major publications have already taken advantage of those previews to publish their reviews. She’s seen a few of them, actually, Mary Margaret’s excited squealing impossible to avoid. And they’re  _ good _ , with such phrases as “featuring stunningly detailed costume design” and “a lovingly adapted classic” and “richly imagined design”. Jones’ performance alone receives the high praise of “surprisingly careful and reserved for an actor so early in his career, his actions evoking the underlying emotions not expressed in the scripted words.” If the critics have anything to say about it - and they often, but not always, do - they might be in for a good and likely lengthy run.

No, Emma’s irrational fear seems more born of the knowledge that this is a turning point, or at least has the potential to be. No one has ever accused Emma of dealing well with change, even when it’s for the better.

“It’s going to be  _ fine _ , Emma,” Elsa patiently assures her for what must be the twentieth time after Emma flees to her neighbor’s for assurance. “You knew this was coming. You’ve said from the beginning that there’s a good chance this will be the show that makes it big. If I remember right, you took this job  _ because _ you thought it was going to be big and do great things for your career. You’re  _ ready _ for this.”

“Am I, though?” Emma says from where she collapsed on Elsa couch, voice muffled by the cushions. At her friend’s uncomprehending hum, she rotates her head to face outwards. “Am I  _ really _ ready for this? Because it feels like I didn't think the whole thing through everything’s going to collapse and we’re all going to be laughed out of a career.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Elsa soothes. Honestly, the woman is a regular well of patience, because Emma is definitely being irrational while Elsa just keeps up her platitudes. “You’ve run this countless times. Everyone knows what they’re doing. And do you really think Dorothy or Mulan or Will would let you down? Especially when they haven’t so far?”

“No,” Emma grudgingly admits.

“No, they wouldn’t,” Elsa echoes back. “Now are you gonna be ok to go back to your apartment, or at least wallow alone on my couch for a bit?  _ Someone _ got me tickets to a Broadway premiere, and I’ve got to go get dressed for that,” she teases as Emma mumbles and groans.

“Fine, I’ll get up,” she sighs dramatically. Emma prepares to slouch back to her own apartment, stealing the afghan from the back of Elsa’s couch on her way, but pauses at the door.

“You really think it’s going to be fine?” she asks one last time.

“ _ Yes _ ,” Elsa replies emphatically, rolling her eyes in a gesture more affectionate than exasperated. “Though maybe not if you don’t go get ready to leave right now.  _ Go,  _ Emma!”

She’s gone.

Of course, it’s kind of out of the frying pan and into the fire back at her place, because Henry’s in a full funk as she attempts to put together a garment bag for the show’s official opening night after party the producers were putting on for the company.

“But why can’t  _ I _ go?” he whines. “You let me come to rehearsals. Aren’t I basically a part of the show?”

“The show? Yes,” Emma explains, attempting to be as patient as necessary. “But it’s an official boozy party tonight, put on by my boss’ bosses, and I’m try to avoid taking you to things that will get me reported to child protective services.”

“Still not fair,” he grumbles, arms crossed across his chest in the picture of petulance.

“Yeah, but you’re probably going to have more fun,” Emma tries to convince him. It’s true, even if Henry still looks less than convinced. “Look, it’s going to be this whole schmoozy thing tonight. Bunch of people who had very little to do with the show congratulating themselves. Totally not fun. Meanwhile, you get to crash with Elsa, who will probably let you stay up later than you should ‘cus she’s a total pushover. Way more fun. Trust me, kid, you’re getting the better end of this deal.”

“I guess,” Henry replies, still downcast but starting to marginally perk up. He’s probably realizing exactly how far he can get in one of his birthday video games before his and Elsa’s consciences kick in.

“You’re done moping then?”

Henry rolls his eyes and refuses to verbally answer, but the smile teasing at the edges of his mouth is answer enough. “Don’t you have to leave soon?” 

“Yeah, probably. Just double checking all our stuff.” On a night like tonight, there’s twice as many things to worry about as usual - not just her supply box, but a change of clothes, the makeup Ruby probably won’t let her use anyway, not to  _ mention _ making sure that Henry’s presentable and backups in case he undoes that between her departure and his arrival at the theater. Never underestimate the ability of a pre-teen boy to spill something on their nice shirt during dinner when there’s an event to attend later.

Shockingly, it looks like all their things are already gathered, both mother and son dressed - Emma even in her nice black pants to mark the occasion. It looks like that weird bout of stress organizing she undertook earlier actually paid off. All that’s left to do is attempt to tame Henry’s hair just a little bit from where it’s shooting out everywhere. She just took him in for a trim last week, but the thing about active boys is that they’ll manage to somehow muss their appearance no matter how hard you try to prevent it.

“Come here for a moment,” she says, voice gentling into something resembling wistfulness. It does the trick, though - Henry comes willingly, no faces pulled and no grumbling, to let Emma run her fingers through his hair in a vain attempt at order. “You know I’d rather just come and hang out with you afterwards, right? You and me and a pizza?”

Henry nods, undoing the smoothing Emma just achieved with her hands. “I know, Mom.”

Emma starts to reach again for his dark, soft locks, but stops herself mid-motion. Honestly, his hair is probably a lost cause anyways. “I can weasel out of it, if you want,” she offers. Emma will, too, if Henry asks. She’ll do anything he asks.

“You have to go. For work, remember? Big bosses, putting your best foot forward?”

“Yeah, but you always come first, kid. I’d find a way to blow it off, you know I would, if you really don’t want me to go,” she reminds Henry. It seems crucial that he knows this, if he didn’t already.

“ _ Go _ , Mom,” he urges, an exasperated smile twisting his mouth. “It’s  _ fine _ .”

It will be, she knows. Henry will have a great time tonight with Elsa, and it’s not like Emma’s going to be out  _ too _ late. She does have to call the show again twice tomorrow. “Ok, well, I’m not going to stay too long. Elsa will be by in fifteen or twenty minutes to go get dinner with Granny -  _ try _ not to spill anything on your shirt, please?” It’s a lost cause, she knows, which is why there’s a spare shirt for Henry in her garment bag along with her dress, but maybe if she doesn’t tell him that, he’ll try harder to stay clean and not shovel his food in massive forkfuls. A woman can dream.

“I promise!” Henry smiles. Emma doesn’t need to see the future to know those are empty words, good intentions aside. “And you’ve got all your stuff?” he double checks on her behalf.

Emma takes a step away to take another browse through all the assorted things she’s assembled one more time. “Surprisingly, yes,” she replies, voice betraying how unusual this is. “In that case… I’ll see you later, kiddo?”

“Later,” he promises, words she’s finally confident she can hold him to. “Me and Elsa and Granny will be the ones with the flowers!”

“I look forward to it,” she chuckles. “Alright, I’m gone. Be good.” 

With a final kiss to his forehead - she’s got to be sneaky about that; since Henry’s hit double digits, he’s started trying to evade it, much to Emma’s sorrow - she heads for the door, laden down with all her various stuff.

“Break a leg!” Henry calls a moment later, presumably after he wipes the kiss from his skin. Preteens. 

All the same, she’s going to do her best to make him proud.

———

Killian doesn’t expect to get more than a glimpse of Emma on opening night, both of them likely to be too busy with all of the many things they need to take care of and rituals they need to complete to allow for more than a quick hello as they pass. Therefore, it’s a huge shock when she unexpectedly turns up in his dressing room as he’s caking on stage makeup, not yet in his various costume pieces.

“That’s a look,” she snorts, suddenly drawing his attention away from where he had been intently focusing on his reflection and movements. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. My backstage shoes make next to no sound, even less than I thought, apparently.”

“That’s quite alright,” he assures her. Glancing up and down her form, she’s clearly in the stage uniform he’s gotten so used to over the past weeks, though turned up a little to mark the evening. The muted black blouse and fitted trousers look splendid on her, though the beaten-up black keds look a little out of place. The grip on those can’t be great anymore, but he supposes that’s a benefit of being the one upstairs calling the shots. Back on topic, though - as much as he enjoys Emma’s company and the fit of those pants, she’s likely here for a reason. “What can I do for you?”

“This is going to be a weird favor to ask,” Emma prefaces, “but can I leave a shirt in here?”

“Uh… sure?” It  _ is _ a weird favor, but he doesn’t have any reason to deny it. He can’t find a tactful, non-nosy way to ask why either, even if Killian is curious.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to ask. “It’s a shirt for Henry, just in case,” she explains. “I left him looking nice, but I’ve learned that pre-teen boys have a way of spilling food on everything. If I tell him the spare is in your dressing room, he’s actually likely to come pick it up.”

“Aye, I suppose that makes sense,” Killian chuckles back. “Yes, absolutely. I’ve got a section of the rack over there with my own street clothes on it,” he gestures.

For some reason, Emma finds that incredibly funny. “You hang your street clothes during the shows?” she snorts.

“Aye, of course.” He’s trying not to look or feel too affronted, but honestly, it’s hard not to. Some of that must show on his face, as Emma jumps to apologize.

“No, no, I don’t mean it’s a  _ bad _ thing, per se,” she clarifies, “just… unexpected. Actors aren’t usually the cleanest, I’m used to dressing rooms being pits with clothes all balled in the corner. It’s refreshing - endearing even. I swear!”

Killian relaxes marginally at the words, though he does feel a bit silly for being so worked up about it in the first place. “I probably am a bit unusual in that regard,” he admits sheepishly. “I’ll admit to being a bit of a neat freak.”

“Hey, whatever works for you,” Emma dismisses breezily as she moves to hang up the garment. Henry’s shirt somehow looks so small next to Killian’s things, the child’s clothing mixed in amongst the adult’s. “Anyways, thanks for this. I’ll try to give you a heads up if he’s headed your way.”

Killian casually waves a hand, dismissing Emma’s words. “No worries, Swan, it’s truly not a bother. You know I’m always happy to see the lad.”

“I know,” Emma replies, expression going curiously soft at his words. The moment is verging suspiciously towards becoming A Moment as they stand there, Emma’s expression turning thoughtful and perhaps a little wistful before she seems to snap herself out of it. “Ok, I’ve got… things to do. So many things.” With anyone else, Killian would think it was a deflection, but he’s seen Emma running around. She has  _ so _ many things to do. “Like I said, I’ll try and shoot you a text. If I don’t see you later though… break a leg?” It comes out as a question, though he can’t imagine why. It’s a little adorable all the same.

“Aye, fingers crossed it will go well. And, uh… same to you, Swan. Does one say break a leg to the crew?”

“Yeah, because the actors will kill you if you say the other thing,” Emma chuckles. “Anyways, I’ll, uh… I’ll see you around.”

And just like that, she’s gone, leaving Killian to replay their interaction in his head and try to process what actually just happened.

———

Emma’s got a checklist in her head every night of all the things that need to be taken care of before a show.

_ Check with Dorothy and Mulan that there’s no anticipated issues _

_ Confirm everything is pre-set _

_ Charge the glo-tape (even if the work lights were on) _

_ Confirm current ticket sales with Jefferson _

_ Check that headsets and the house and orchestra pit phones are working. _

It’s an extensive list, to say the least, and that barely scratches the surface. Not to mention when she ends up having to coordinate Henry dropping by to get the extra shirt later (Mom instincts for the win, there).

Examining whatever that moment with Kilian was is nowhere on her itinerary.

She tells herself it’s a time issue - there’s too many other things occupying her mind, too many other tasks that need to be focused on - but the truth of the matter is that even if she did have the time, she wouldn’t be jumping to dissect it. Whatever it is feels suspiciously close to  _ feelings _ , and Emma Swan very famously Does Not Do Feelings. At least not the romantic ones. Honestly, she’d rather deal with her nerves right now that whatever that thing with Killian was, and that’s saying something.

Apparently, it’s jinxing herself to even think that, though. Emma’s barely set foot back in the booth before Robin looks up from his own prep to meet her eyes.

“How you holding up there, Emma?” he asks, a smile gracing his face that Emma just  _ might _ view as teasing if she was in any other frame of mind. 

“God, do we have to?” she whines. Somehow, that catches Robin’s full attention, as he spins in his chair to fully face her.

“Well, I was just making conversation,” he notes, “but now with that answer, I’m leaning towards yes.” As if to make his point, he leans forward to brace his arms onto his knees. “C’mon, spill. What’s the matter? I assume something is, with that kind of reaction.”

“Nothing’s the matter. I’m not nervous,” Emma snaps right back. Belatedly, she realizes that that may have given too much away - especially when Robin exhales a knowing hum.

“Of course not,” he says, voice even and soothing. “But, if you  _ were  _ nervous - not that you are, of course, absolutely not - but if you  _ were _ , what would you be nervous about?”

Emma recognizes this tactic. It’s a total parent move - one she’s used herself, if she’s being honest. It’s much less enjoyable on this end, she has to admit. She’s also very well aware that Robin, if he’s anything like Emma when  _ she _ breaks out this approach, will be willing to wait it out until he gets a proper answer.

“I don’t know,” she sighs, resigned. “I guess… I’m afraid of disappointment? Purely hypothetically, of course,” she clarifies, glaring at Robin as he smiles genially. “But I’ve kind of hyped the show up in my mind, and in my mind, there’s a lot riding on the success of this. So I guess that  _ if _ I were to be nervous… it’d be because I was afraid that there wouldn’t be an effect - either because the show flops, or I’ve been inflating in my head what a success could do to my career beyond what’s actually possible.” Somehow, it’s easier to talk to Robin about this - maybe because he offers her deniability, maybe because she knows these same thoughts must have occurred to him at some point or another in his career.

“Well, if you  _ were _ nervous, I’d tell you not to be,” Robin smiles. It’s the least helpful advice ever, honestly, which Emma makes obvious by rolling her eyes. “Oh don’t do that, now,” he scolds, “I mean it. Not just because it’s some platitude one says when a person is nervous, but because everyone in this business, at least on the techie side, is a creature of habit. If this does well, it’s going to give Merlin’s career a massive boost, and he’ll drag you right along with him.”

“I don’t know about that,” Emma scoffs.

“Trust me, you two work well together. Take it from someone who’s seen it before - directors like to keep working with the people they mesh with. And if this show doesn’t do well, then you’ve still managed to make new connections with people and you’ve got a resume that already took you this far. You’ll be  _ fine _ . Of course, you’re not worrying about these things,” he adds at the end, winking exaggeratedly at Emma.

“Definitely not.”

And the thing is, after talking it through with Robin, she’s really not - or at least not freaking out as much as before. Must be some kind of dad-magic. She’s at least calm enough to not sound completely on edge when Jefferson texts from downstairs to inform Emma that the crowds downstairs are getting pretty sizeable and is she planning to start calling house warnings anytime soon? Just a thought.

Emma rolls her eyes at the tone, but secures the headset on her head and calls fifteen minutes until house is open. It’s time she put on her electronic leash, anyway; folks have probably been wondering where she’s at, and lord knows things can completely fall apart in the five minutes it takes for Emma to speed walk from the stage back to the booth and get herself set up and reconnected to the rest of the crew. The good news is that at this level of theater, unlike Emma’s early days, there’s no last-minute frantic clearing of the stage from last minute fixes. The stage is set and clear; all that’s left to do is calmly inform everyone as the curtain’s rise creeps closer and closer.

_ House is open. _

_ Places in 15. _

_ Places in 10. _

_ Places in 5. _

_ Places. _

As Emma counts down the minutes with the familiar words, her nerves disintegrate to practically nothing. Falling into routine, it’s easy to remind herself that this is just another performance, fool herself into thinking that there’s nothing at all significant about it. From her perch above the crowds, she can hear the orchestra warming up faintly underneath the buzz of the audience, hundreds of people simultaneously flipping through Playbills and carrying on all manner of conversations. After hearing those sounds enough, they fade into a white noise of sorts, vaguely comforting in its constancy. Not even Merlin’s arrival can distract her at this point, even if he does pop into the booth in his suit to make a last-minute check right when Emma needs to do another round of calls over the headset. Despite any minor freak-outs she may or may not have had earlier, Emma’s finally in the zone, and nothing will shake her out of it.

If the nerves were to return, this would be the moment, when they’re executing the final checks before the show starts and just waiting to hear from Jefferson that most people are seated, the moment when anyone else might be suddenly hit by the enormity of what they’re all attempting to accomplished, but the need for a laser-focus overrides all else. Backstage, they’re just waiting for one last chorus member who nervously ran to find a last drink of water; the orchestra is ready, tuned and waiting.

“Standby for recording,” Emma reminds Kristoff, the blonde man poised and ready at the soundboard. The cue for the recording reminding the audience to turn off their phones is the first direction of the show; as soon as Kristoff presses that button, they’ll be off and running.

“Standing by,” he assures everyone over the headset, flashing Emma a smile and a thumbs-up.

“Two minutes ‘til, go ahead and flash the lights, Robin.” Lord knows they’ll probably run over the intended 7:30pm start time, everyone still scrambling to get candy or drinks or find their seats, but a girl can dream, and the lights are a convenient reminder to the audience of the intended schedule. “And then standby to dim the house lights.”

“Will do,” Robin tells her, reaching for the controls. As the lights dim, Emma makes sure to switch on her red-filmed lamp. The booth’s lights have already been shut off, and as soon as the house lights dim, they’ll be cast into blackness. Faintly, she sees Robin fiddle with the intercom switch on his headset and turning to face Emma with a grin. 

“You ready for this?”

Before Emma gets a chance to answer, her own headset jumps back to life as Jefferson calls to give the okay to start. “As I’ll ever be,” she tells Robin dryly, eliciting a chuckle from her partner in crime.

“Atta girl,” he winks, reaching up to switch his intercom back on. “Ready on your cue.”

Emma takes a final deep breath, savoring this last moment before everything might change.

“House lights go, recording go,” she instructs, as easy as breathing. She was born to do this; no matter how this performance goes, it’s going to be ok.

With that command, the lights go down, and the rest of the future begins.

———

The applause sounds thunderous to Killian’s ears -  _ but then again,  _ he thinks,  _ that might just be the adrenaline talking _ . 

He couldn’t have asked for a better performance, every member of the company at the top of their game, but the relief that they’ve made it through with flying colors bring with it a complete and utter exhaustion. As he waits in the wings to take his bow, Killian’s running on autopilot. It doesn’t help in the least, either, that the night’s not over yet, though he’s not sure he’ll have the energy to make much more than an appearance at the after party he’s been assured it’s  _ crucial _ he attends (the only reason he’ll put in an appearance at all, really).

Muscle memory proves to be a wonderful thing; walk out, meet Belle at center stage, cede the floor to his lovely partner before taking his own bow, step back to allow her another solitary moment before meeting the rest of the cast as they walk back forward for a final round of cast bows. 

Idly, he contemplates if Swan’s exhausted as well as they gesture towards the booth, lights flashing in recognition of the motion. Killian can’t picture it, really - Emma always seems fueled and ready to go, where that’s by excitement or determination or irritation or any other of the other emotions he can read so clearly on her face most of the time. From what he’s seen, Emma Swan really doesn’t feel anything by halves.

It’s a relief when the curtain finally closes and he can beat a retreat backstage. There’s a decent chair waiting in his dressing room, and if he can’t get a nap, then Killian would at least like five minutes off his feet. Of course, he’ll first have to fight through the masses, all determined to exit the stage all at once. Honestly, he’s not sure how they’ve mustered the energy.

He means to turn and make a comment along those lines to Belle, ever his partner in crime, but they’re barely back into the wings before she’s off like a shot, making a beeline for Will Scarlet’s grinning form.

“You were a sensation, love, an absolute bleedin’  _ revelation _ ,” he exclaims, probably louder than he should, his voice thankfully fated to be drowned out by the departing crowds just beyond the curtain so that only the company will hear him. The whoop Will makes when he catches Belle into a twirl may be harder to cover, but Killian hopes they’ll be forgiven, just this once. He’s never actually seen the always irreverent Scarlet be this genuine before, at least not up close.

Belle, however, is clearly uninterested in Will’s words, as he’s barely set her back onto her feet before she drags his lips down to her own. Killian says drags, but he notes that Scarlet doesn’t offer any resistance, indeed allowing the petite brunette to back him into the safety rail guarding the fly system before wrapping both arms around her waist to pull her even closer. It’s not a surprise to witness, per se - indeed, Killian’s been expecting something of the sort for a while - but the sheer dramatics of it all still leaves Killian a bit struck. 

Seeing his friends happily distracted with one another, Killian can’t help the small pang of jealousy. No one deserves this more than Belle after her sorrowful history, buy Killian can’t help wishing for the same for himself. Well, not with Belle, obviously, and certainly not with Will. But sharing a moment with a certain impressive blonde...

“Oh, for God’s sake,” comes a muttered and exasperated voice from Killian’s left, pulling him from his thoughts. “ _ Must _ they?”

Even less surprising than the development unfolding in front of anyone who cares to pass by is the discovery that it’s Regina protesting at his side. “See something that displeases you, Your Majesty?” Killian teases. Since Regina’s entrance into their production, he’s learned his costar has a no-nonsense mindset and multitude of opinions, none of which she’s hesitant to express. Some might say that she doesn’t suffer fools gladly, and today, it seems that that definition extends to young lovebirds. Though much more pleasant than her sister by leaps and bounds, Regina does still embody what can only be described as a regal air; Killian oftentimes finds himself deferring to her air of confidence in their non-theatrical interactions, laced as it is with the feeling that her word is law. Then again, that’s likely a natural outcome of being raised by infamous diva Cora Mills - an unshakeable confidence in one’s self and one’s proclamations. Regina somehow manages to be good company all the same, and Killian actually finds that he enjoys her blunt personality and dry sense of humor. He’d even go so far as to say that they’re friends, of a sort.

Regina sniffs in response. Killian can’t help but get the weirdest feeling that she’s heard his thoughts and is  _ not _ impressed, even though he knows that’s impossible. 

It’s probably a bad idea to provoke the queen, but Killian just can’t resist, volleying back with a dramatic gasp. “Oh, don’t tell me you have something against young love.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Regina replies, rolling her eyes. “I simply don’t understand why they need to be so  _ public _ about it. Lord knows Blanchard and Nolan are already bad enough.”

Killian can’t help but snort at that. “Ah, well, you’re not wrong on the latter count,” he concedes. “But, regardless, let them be. Those two lovebirds deserve it.” Gallantly, he offers an arm to his companion to steer them both backstage to their own dressing rooms.

“You’re such a pushover, Jones,” she accuses, but much like his earlier teasing, there’s no heat behind it.

“Oh, like you wouldn’t be doing the same thing, given the chance,” he retorts. He’s seen the way Loxley acts around the haughty brunette, the dictionary definition of an awestruck fool, seen the way that Regina doesn’t discourage it. Killian can’t even say that it feels like preening - it seems like the outwardly unapproachable actress welcomes Robin’s attentions, even enjoys his stuttering presence. Who knows, maybe that will evolve into something as well.

“I certainly wouldn’t be putting on a display for everyone, Jones, and I resent the implication,” she replies, calmly enough that he’s confident she’s not entirely serious. “I have more dignity than that, thank you very much.”

“Oh, I’d never suggest otherwise.”

Regina shoots him a disbelieving look, but they’re at the door of the dressing room she shares with Mary Margaret (and blessedly without any romantic sounds emanating from within), and it’s easy enough to take his leave with a final salacious wink.

Maybe, if he’s very lucky, he can still get a quick half-hour nap in before he needs to go to this ridiculous party.

———

Killian just means to close his eyes for a few minutes, but by the time he wakes back up, over an hour has passed. The theater is eerily quiet with most of its usual inhabitants already gone, spurring Killian to quickly put on his dress shirt and suit. 

Thankfully, he seems to arrive to the party at just the perfect time, right when things are starting to pick up. There’s a pleasant buzz of energy echoing across the atmospherically lit loft space some bigwig rented out for the occasion, enough people present to make it a party but not yet so many that the closed room becomes cloying. He pauses barely inside the doors to survey the room and see who he knows. Belle’s nowhere in sight yet, nor is Will - Killian knows his co-star is very much expected to attend this party and do a bit of schmoozing, but he wouldn’t blame her at all if the two young lovers decided to make a dash for the nearest apartment instead. He does spot August Booth, however, and Arthur the sketchy understudy, and Ruby, who’s styled all the wigs for the show. Ruby’s presence in particular catches Killian’s attention - if she’s here, chances are that Swan is as well, and Killian scans the room more attentively in hopes of spotting her.

It’s probably a good thing no one’s spotted him yet from the shadowed entrance, because he’s struck dumb when he finally spots Swan in the crowd. In his opinion, she always looks beautiful, but this… this is something else. The practical trousers and blouse have been swapped for a sleek black dress in a texture that almost looks like leather, matched with a pair of tall heels that do wonders for her legs. The messy updo that looked so practical when she was breezing through the theater earlier somehow looks breezy and elegant here, though it’s the only remnant of her earlier appearance. In short, she looks like a dream, the kind of dream he’d blush and stammer about in the recounting, and leaves him gaping like a fish. She’s over by the bar again, just like that first night at the Grey Lady, and the memory of those first interactions finally drives him forward out of his stupor to cross the room. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” he greets, purposefully echoing that night just to warrant a reaction.

Obligingly, Emma rolls her eyes, though there’s a smile playing at the edges of her mouth. “Is that your only line?” she demands.

“Oh darling, if you want lines, I’ve got  _ plenty _ ,” he assures with a salacious eyebrow waggle, tongue playing at the corner of his mouth. Interestingly, Emma’s gaze follows the latter motion, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. He’ll have to examine that later. “Please, allow me to tell you how lovely you look tonight.”

“Thanks,” she replies, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in the skirt in a move more self-conscious than truly necessary. “Not my usual thing, I know, but Ruby wouldn’t let me go until I met her standards.” 

“She is a force to be reckoned with.”

“Yeah, that’s one way of putting it,” Emma chuckles. “You look…”

“I know,” he smiles cockily, eliciting a groan from Emma.

“Is that one of those lines you were telling me about?” she asks, dry tone dripping in sarcasm.

“Only if you want it to be, darling.”

“Yeah, no, let’s not,” she shoots back, but her smile’s fighting again to be seen.

_ Interesting. _

“ _ Anyways _ ,” she continues pointedly, “well done tonight. Quite the performance from ‘Broadway’s newest rising star’.” Emma makes sure to emphasize the air quotes, and it’s Killian’s turn to groan, almost against his will.

“You saw that too?” he asks. “I think Liam’s about ready to frame that damn review.”

“Oh, I saw it alright. It’s my show too, I’ve got to read the reviews to see if I”ll still have a job next month or if we’ll be closing earlier than anticipated,” she replies. It’s a logical enough reason, but Killian’s sure that he’ll still blush every time someone mentions they read the damn thing.

“Yes, well, it’s still uncomfortable to read such things about oneself,” he grumbles, finally working that laugh out of the lovely blonde. Hearing the sound  _ almost _ makes his red ears worth it. 

“Oh, what a tough life,” she teases, handing over a champagne glass. “You could always come work on the crew, you’ll never have your name mentioned again. Just a thought.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he cautions, eliciting another snorting laugh.

“Well, regardless - to a successful show,” she toasts.

“A successful show,” he echoes. “May it be long and smooth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're off! And to an excellent start, too. Plus, the Belle/Will relationship is truly taking off! Good times all around.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, my partner in crime, @snidgetsafan. Thanks for dealing with my pointless headcanons that will never make it into this thing.
> 
> If you liked this chapter and/or this story, consider leaving kudos, comments, or feedback - I love hearing from you guys! Thank you to those who have already done so!
> 
> Also posted on tumblr - I'm @shireness-says. Come make friends.
> 
> Thanks for reading - hope to see you all next week!


	11. Chapter 10: On My Own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are about to take a turn for the festive in this AU! And also a turn for the momentarily angsty. Sorry? (Not really.)
> 
> Chapter title taken from Les Mis because it had to happen sometime.
> 
> Enjoy!

“There’s just something about New York at Christmastime,” Mary Margaret sighs happily, ever the beam of sunshine even as a godawful sleet mixture falls around her. 

Emma, in contrast, is not. Emma is the one who grumbles things under her breath and would rather not be out in the entire month leading up to Christmas, let alone in this weather. Then again, Emma is also the one who agreed to go look at the store windows on 5th Avenue just to avoid Mary Margaret’s kicked puppy face, so she’s technically given up her right to complain about this. 

“Yeah, it sure is something,” she manages to grind out, though even a deaf person would be able to tell she’s less than genuine about it. It’s been a whole day of this. Call Emma a Scrooge, but she really doesn’t see the appeal of fighting through crowds in miserable weather to see a bunch of highly commercialized displays. She’s cold, her feet are wet, and if she has to be miserable somewhere, she’d prefer it were on her couch in her pajamas.

(If she’s being truthful, her current foul mood has less to do with the outing and more to do with other circumstances, but she’s not ready to actually face those yet).

“You can’t deny, there’s an energy about the city you don’t find at other times of the year,” Mary Margaret tries to argue.

_ Yeah, because the city’s either filled with tourists or panicked holiday shoppers _ , Emma thinks. She doesn’t say that out loud, of course, offering only an vague grunt in hopes of warding off another nearly obnoxiously optimistic comment from her friend, but she does think it rather loudly. The hope, of course, is that Mary Margaret will pick up on this with the psychic powers Emma is  _ still _ halfway convinced she possesses after far too many years of the brunette somehow anticipating her needs without a single word needing to be said.

And maybe, technically it works, because despite an entire afternoon of cheer, this non-comment appears to be the straw that broke the camel’s back as Mary Margaret whirls around to face Emma. “What is  _ with you? _ ” she demands. “We do this every year, and I know you’re never as excited as I am about it, but truly, Emma, this is ridiculous. Is it  _ that _ painful to do this with me? Have I insulted you somehow?”

That strikes Emma. Regardless of how irritable Emma is, there’s no sense in taking it out on Mary Margaret, one of her best friends, when she’s in no way to blame. “No, no, I’m sorry,” Emma sighs heavily. “It’s not you, I swear. I’m just…”

“Pissy?” Mary Margaret suggests. It’s so unusual, coming from her mouth, that Emma actually manages to huff out a laugh.

“Yeah, pissy,” she agrees.

“Well, as long as it’s not about me, I forgive you,” Mary Margaret concedes, linking her arm through Emma’s to steer them towards a nearby coffee shop. At least one of Emma’s immediate problems will be dealt with, even if it’s just the frozen toes. “Do you want to talk about it?” she offers.

Another sigh. “That’d be the emotionally healthy thing to do, wouldn’t it?”

Mary Margaret laughs at that. “You’re not wrong,” she concedes, “but more importantly, it’ll make you feel  _ better _ .”

“Oh, that was heavy-handed, even for you.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” Mary Margaret cheerfully chirps back. If Emma wasn’t so distracted by other matters, it’d be downright nauseating. “Now come on, what’s the matter?”

Still, Emma shakes her head. If she’s going to delve into this, she wants it all out all at once, no interruptions of stopping and starting because they have to order and find a table and get out of other people’s way and whatever else. 

“Emma…” Mary Margaret starts, clearly ready to express some maternal disappointment in Emma’s emotional reticence before she interrupts again.

“Just… give me a minute, ok?” Emma cuts in. “I’m not trying to get out of this, just… can we at least get settled first?”

Mary Margaret grudgingly concedes, allowing Emma a chance to gather her thoughts. For better or worse, though, the line is short and moving at a brisk pace, and before she knows it, the ladies are seated with their take-away mugs and, in Emma’s case, a giant cookie. Faced with no other excuses, Emma plunges into the matter without further ado.

“Henry’s going up to visit Neal on the 27th,” she explains, “which I already was less than thrilled about. We’ve got traditions, you know? We make tons of cookies and rent a bunch of movies and wear our pajamas all day long. I was going to get over it though. As long as he’s happy, right? But,” Emma pauses to take a deep breath, attempting to calm herself, “apparently, Neal’s rented some cabin in Vermont so they can all go skiing.  Henry’s thrilled, as I’m sure you can imagine. I’m trying to hard to remember that all that matters is that he’s happy, and he’s  _ so _ happy and excited, but I’m… I don’t know what I am. Bitter, maybe? It just all really underlines the kind of things that  _ I  _ can’t give Henry. I can’t afford that kind of vacation - hell, we can hardly afford the occasional road trip! And meanwhile, Neal can just last-minute decide that he wants to toss around all this money. Probably because he thinks if he takes Henry skiing it’ll be some backdoor way to get Henry into sports, since he’s still got that weird hang up about Henry preferring to read and write and play video games than do team sports. Which is  _ another  _ terribly bitter thing to say, because most people would assume he just wants to do something nice for his kid with no ulterior motives.  _ God, _ I’m a terrible mother.” Weirdly enough, Emma does feel better after that round of stream-of-consciousness word vomit. Huh. Maybe there’s something to be said for Mary Margaret’s ‘better out than in’ philosophy when it comes to feelings.

The lady in question is too focused on reassuring Emma to argue that point, however. “You’re  _ not _ a terrible mother, Emma,” she insists. “You’re doing the best you can. Sure, you can’t afford any fancy vacations, but Henry knows you’d do anything for him, which is more important. And honestly, with Neal’s track record, it’s understandable to be suspicious of his motives. Though maybe this is an attempt to make up for all the time he’s missed with Henry, the cancelled dinners and missed phone calls and all that?” she offers weakly in suggestion.

“Maybe,” Emma concedes, though her tone betrays her as being unconvinced. That’s her own fault, though, too caught up in her irrational anger at the situation to accept that Neal likely doesn’t have any underhanded intentions for this trip.

“Well, it might make you feel better to tell yourself that, if nothing else. Repeatedly, as much as necessary,” Mary Margaret compromises.

“Yeah, I know,” Emma sighs. “Still makes me a terrible mother to be thinking that in the first place, though, especially when Henry’s so excited.”

“You are  _ not _ a terrible mother, I promise,” her friend reiterates. “You’re just… not great with change. And this is definitely change.”

Emma snorts. “Yeah, that’s  _ so _ much better, thanks.”

“Oh don’t give me that,” Mary Margaret scolds. “You know it’s true.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma mutters back. “Just… keep reminding me of how happy Henry is about this in the coming days, before I revert back to being a grinch again?”

“I’ll do my best.”

———

Liam flies into New York for Christmas, which is the best present Killian could have possibly asked for.

“I missed you, brother,” he says, barely above a whisper, as they embrace in the airport terminal. He’ll blame the terrible airport air if asked, but his throat feels suspiciously tight.

“Oh come now, Killy, we just spoke yesterday,” Liam pretends to tease, though there’s no bite to it - his arms are wrapped just as tightly around Killian’s back in fraternal embrace. “But I  _ suppose _ I missed you too.” They finally part after an extended hug, manfully trying to pretend the neither was at all emotionally affected by the reunion. 

There’s not a big fuss made over Christmas, Killian working too many hours to really turn it into something extravagant. Still, there’s ham and potatoes and rolls and far more leftovers than even two bachelors can ever hope to polish off. Liam laughs when he first gets a look at the dinky little tabletop tree Killian procured and decorated, but Killian really thinks that it adds something to the atmosphere. A Christmas in the the midst of New York City doesn’t feel quite traditional, but that little tree adds a touch of a homey feel. Killian will even admit to a growing fondness for the green and red lights gracing several of the skyscrapers if pressed. 

Though he treasures the memories made the entire day, Killian thinks his favorite moments occur at the very end, when the two brothers share a couple glasses of good rum on the couch, a present from Liam currently benefiting both men. Which was likely half his motivation behind the gift in the first place, though Killian’s graciously willing to ignore that. 

“A man could get used to this,” Liam comments. 

“Even with the snow?” Flying in from Los Angeles, Liam had been less prepared for New York’s cold snap than he should have been. Killian could certainly understand if the sleet-snow mixture they’d lately been treated to had somewhat hindered his enjoyment of the trip, presence of beloved brothers aside.

The older man chuckles. “Aye, even with the snow,” he admits, surprising his younger brother. “It may be cold, but it doesn’t feel like Christmas out in California. Palm trees lose their appeal after a while, you know.”

“Well, you might be saying differently if you were here more often,” Killian jokes.

“And what if I were?”

That brings Killian up short, his brain struggling to process. “And what if you were what?”

“Out here more often,” Liam elaborates.

“What, like on a film?”

“I don’t know. Not specifically. I was just thinking… after this film wraps, maybe I might try to get a place out here. Be closer to you.”

“You know I’d love that,” Killian admits, “but Liam, don’t feel like you have to move out here to take care of me. I’m a grown lad, I can take care of myself.”

“I know, I’m not disputing that,” Liam quickly jumps to reassure. “I just… it’s been rough, more so than usual, being across the country from you. You may not need looking after anymore, but you’re still my little brother —”

“ _ Younger _ brother—”

“ _ Younger _ brother, and I want to be here for all these important moments, as much as I can. It still kills me that I missed the parade and your opening night.” He takes another sip of his rum as Killian sits in shock. “It’s just something I’ve been thinking about. Turn it over in your mind a bit.”

Food for thought indeed.

The ultimate decision will be up to Liam, obviously, but Killian is certainly in favor of the idea. Liam will have to do what’s best for him, but Killian misses having his brother nearby, something that his sporadic visits have really made evident. At a certain point, phone calls just won’t cut it, no matter how often they’re scheduled and made. Killian is lucky to be surrounded in the show by people he considers to be not just coworkers, but friends as well, but Liam is his only family - a role that can’t be substituted by even the closest of friends. Having his brother nearby, even if only on a semi-permanent basis between roles… it’d be the missing piece in this bizarre, surreal dream he’s living.

Yes, the decision may be Liam’s, but Killian will keep his fingers crossed all the same.

———

Emma manages to pull it together in time for a lovely Christmas - it’s kind of hard to remain at all melancholic when in the company of an eleven-year-old who still fully revels in the holiday spirit - but it all hits again two days later at the train station as she prepares to send Henry off for his vacation. In fact, she’d go so far as to say the resurgence is worse, as her pointless bitterness, anger, and lingering insecurities fight against the poignant feelings of concern and worry when faced with imminent separation. 

She knows she’s driving Henry nuts, but she can’t help but go full mom-mode as they stand on the platform. “Ok, you’ve got your charger?”

“Yes, Mom,” Henry replies, more patiently than she anticipated.

“Extra socks?”

“I saw you pack them.”

“Your toothbrush?”

“Yep.”

“Your…” Emma’s frankly running out of items, but she not ready to say goodbye yet. “You’re sure you packed your charger?”

“ _ Yes _ , Mom!” Henry groans in exasperation, his patience clearly gone. “We’ve gone over all this, like, ten times. I’ve got everything I need. Did you forget that you already did this checklist back home?”

“I’m not  _ that _ old. Yet,” she insists, nudging her son’s side in a teasing gesture. He rolls his eyes in response. God, she really needs to stop doing that if her kid has picked it up so naturally. “No, no, I know, we’ve been through this, it’s just… I’m gonna miss you, kid. I know you’re so excited, and you’re going to have so much fun, but I’m going to miss you while you’re away.”

“It’s not even for a week,” Henry points out, ever her logical kid.

“Still. My point stands.”

“I’ll miss you too, Mom,” he vows, stepping forward to be enveloped in a hug. He’s getting so tall these days; it seems like just yesterday he was barely past her knee, but Emma can now rest her chin comfortably on the top of his head, and she’s confident even that won’t be possible for much longer.

Emma pulls back just slightly to meet his eyes. “I’m sure you’re going to have the best time, but if you don’t, if you want to come home early for any reason, just call me, okay? We’ll make it happen, I’ll fake a sick day if I have to in order to come pick you up. Any time, kid.”

“You just want me all to yourself,” Henry grumbles, but there’s a smile tugging on his lips. He may just be joking, but the words shoot a pang of guilt through Emma’s heart. He’s not wrong, is the thing - she’d still much rather have him at home. She knows he’s looking forward to this though, and Henry will  _ always _ come first, so she pastes on a smile and tries to make it into a joke.

“You’ve found it out - my devious plan,” she winks. “I mean it though - just say the word.”

“Yes, Mom,” Henry repeats yet again, his tone betraying that his patience is reaching its limit. The overhead announcer calls the warning for Henry’s train, so she quickly steps back to allow him to collect his things and board. 

“And call me when your dad picks you up! He should be waiting for you on the platform.”

“I will, Mom.”

Emma gives into the urge to drag her son’s forehead in for one final kiss. “Have the best time, alright? And text your old mom a few times. I love you  _ so  _ much, Henry.”

“I love you too,” Henry replies, graciously resisting the urge to wipe the kiss off his forehead. Emma watches as he boards the train, following with her eyes through the windows as he walks down the aisles and settles into his seat. And then, with a final round of enthusiastic waving - thank God her little boy hasn’t  _ quite _ outgrown that urge - he’s gone, leaving Emma alone.

At the risk of sounding like an utter cliche, the day seems so much duller with the knowledge that Henry won’t be waiting for her at home. She should be used to this by now, but she always gets a bit morose when Henry’s with his dad. Her son has been the center of Emma’s entire world since the moment he was born. She’s a little tetherless without him there, set adrift without her anchor, mind cataloging things out of habit that she’ll have to tell Henry about when she gets home only to remember that he won’t be there for several more days. Even the sight of the show’s taxi ads, loudly proclaiming it a “must see!” and “most anticipated show of the year!” can’t cheer her up, the enthusiasm of the text grating on her already poor mood.

It’ll get better, Emma tells herself as she opens the door to her empty apartment. It’s not that long, and she’ll get a chance to take care of a lot of the cleaning and errands that are usually shoved to the side in the ritual that is living with a pre-teen boy. Maybe just enjoy some alone alone time. 

Already knowing those self-reassurances are hollow, Emma tosses her keys to the counter in order to go change and collect her things for the evening’s show. With no real chance of being distracted at home, she may as well get to the theater early. She can always find something to do at work.

Happy holidays to her.

——— 

Killian hadn’t intended to bring Liam to the cast and crew holiday party. Honestly, he hadn’t planned to make more than a quick token appearance himself. But Belle is absolutely, disproportionately crushed to hear this plan, and everyone rushes to assure him that his brother is completely welcome to come too, and his resistance rather crumbles when faced with both those facts. It’s not that he ever had something against the party; he would just rather spend that time with Liam in some form, especially since their time together is limited by both their careers. Liam, in turn, is a good sport about it - more than that, really, he’s shockingly happy to attend.

(“What, you thought I’d say no?” he had questioned when Killian first proposed the idea. “I got on very well with your coworkers last time, I’ll have you know. Spending an evening in their company would be the furthest thing from a hardship.  _ Especially _ if there’s going to be drinks involved,” he jokes.

“You’re just looking to get a break from my company,” Killian accuses teasingly. “Some brother you are.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve caught me, I’m going stir crazy. Another moment spent in your solitary company just might kill me.”)

Killian had half expected to have to stick with his brother the entire night just to make sure he’s included, but he should have known that Liam can more than hold his own in social situations. Somehow, he’s hit it off with Robin Loxley, the two men chatting about God only knows what, and Killian saw Belle steering Liam’s way with her new beau earlier. Of course, it doesn’t hurt either that Emma’s neighbor, Elsa, was generously included in the invitation after being a semi-regular figure around the theater when she takes Henry home every evening. Though Liam won’t admit it, Killian knows his brother was rather smitten with the reserved blonde on their previous acquaintance. If the pretty pink blush on her cheeks tonight as Liam beelines in her direction is any indication, Killian would say that Elsa holds some interest as well.

Curiously enough, Henry himself is not in attendance at the party, and Swan proves to be elusive, Killian catching little more than glimpses of blonde hair and green eyes before his attention is inevitably directed elsewhere. He keeps meaning to go speak with her, at least the  _ how was your holiday  _ and  _ Happy Christmas _ pleasantries, but time gets away from him. In the end, he spends so much time on those same pleasantries with others that the party is winding down before he knows it, people beginning to head home, and he still hasn’t found Swan. It’s completely possible she’s already left - Liam had ducked out a side door with her lovely neighbor not fifteen minutes before, intending to continue their… whatever at a local bar - but Killian will be kicking himself later if he doesn’t at least make a final check for her.

By chance, Robin is passing by on his way out the door, presumably off to retrieve his son from the sitter’s, and Killian quickly flags him down.

“What can I do for you, Jones?” Robin asks genially. Killian’s beginning to think that genial is the man’s only setting; he’s never seen the lighting designer in a mood any less than agreeable.

“Have you seen Emma?” Killian asks, brows furrowed. “I’m afraid I lost sight of her in all the buzz of the party.”

“I think she’s around here somewhere,” Robing replies. “At the very least I haven’t seen her leave yet. Why, do you need something? Perhaps I can be of assistance, if it turns out that she’s nowhere to be found.” 

“Oh no no, nothing important,” Killian assures. “Just wanted to say hello, Happy Christmas, the like. Just check in.”

“Just check in, huh?” Killian was clearly mistaken about Robin’s agreeability before, because that twinkle in the other man’s eye right now is all too knowing in a way the Killian just  _ knows _ means he’s about to receive some razzing. “Is that what the kids call it these days?”

Killian rolls his eyes. “Really, Robin. Just checking in. Being friendly. Like a friend.”

“Are you  _ sure _ there’s nothing else you need to tell her? Or, maybe,  _ ask _ her?” It’s obvious that Robin thinks Killian is looking for Emma for a romantic moment. If only he knew that those romantic overtures he’s so anticipating have already occurred and been rejected.

“I’m very sure, Loxley.” The lighting designer means well, but Killian is suddenly anxious to escape this conversation before that smirk gets any more defined. “Well, thanks for letting me know,” he concludes awkwardly, despite the fact that Robin hasn’t actually given him any useful information. “I’ll take a sweep through the theater for her. Happy Holidays, Robin.”

He’s almost free, but Killian should have known there’s well-meaning plotting behind that amiable smile, as Robin jumps to get the last word in as Killian walks away. “Good luck, lover boy!”

(It’s only the firmly implanted knowledge that they work together that keeps Killian from flipping the other man off, geniality be damned.)

Killian checks backstage first, half expecting Emma to be hidden in some corner making minute adjustments and fixing problems no one else can see - it’d be completely in character for her, if he’s being honest, and completely endearing - but even though he checks every corner, Emma is nowhere in sight. He’ll check the stage and audience again, but he didn’t see her when he first started searching, and it’s not like there’s a ton of places to hide.

He’s just about to give up on finding her, ready to accept that Swan most likely has already left for home, when he hears a muffled thump from the vicinity of the balcony immediately followed by what sounds like distant cursing - almost like someone knocked a limb against one of the aisle seats. Looking around, it appears like almost everyone has cleared out, just a few stragglers helping Jefferson and the front of house staff clean up.While it’s entirely possible that the source of the noise upstairs was just another person cleaning up, there’s a small chance too that it might be Emma, and Killian immediately diverts his path towards the stairs.

Sure enough, when he reaches the top, he spots Emma struggling to situate herself on the balcony ledge, legs jammed under the safety bar. Well, that’s the position she seems to be attempting, at least; one leg appears to be cooperating, but the other knee is resisting being wiggled under the barrier, Emma’s brow furrowing in either deep concentration or pronounced irritation as she tries to coax it through. When she finally succeeds, she lets out a victorious little noise that Killian can’t help but chuckle at, startling the blonde and drawing her attention.

“You alright there, Swan?” he asks, moving in her direction with an amused smile on his face.

“Yes, fine,” she says shortly. “Even if  _ some people _ ” - she throws a sharp look in his direction for emphasis, wobbling concerningly in her attempts to face in his direction - “insist on snooping. Now, hand me my bottle,” she commands. As Killian moves closer, he can see a plastic water bottle filled unmistakably with the rum punch Ruby provided for the party waiting just out of Emma’s reach. That would certainly explain the wobbling, and the way Emma struggles to maintain eye contact.

“Is there a reason you’re up here drinking alone?” Killian asks, stalling for time to attempt to keep the drink away from Emma’s grasp.

Unfortunately, even a tipsy-heading-towards-drunk Emma can see through that attempt, visibly bristling as she stretches to snatch the bottle out of his hands. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” she all but snaps, tone childishly petulant in her intoxication.

“You’re right, it’s not,” he replies, deliberately easy-going in his manner. “I just wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything the matter. I’m a willing ear if you need it, love.” The endearment was probably a step too far, but Emma thankfully doesn’t seem to notice. A small plus side to her drunken distraction, he supposes. His offer doesn’t elicit much more than unintelligible grumbles and mumbles from Swan, so he switches tactics to try and get her to open up. “I missed seeing Henry tonight. Did he decide to stay home?”

Unexpectedly, Emma laughs bitterly, taking a swig of punch from her water bottle that she almost  _ certainly _ doesn’t need. “Henry,” she declares, gesturing precariously with the still-open bottle, “is with his dad for the new year.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah, ‘ah’,” she mimics. 

“I take it that’s not the norm?” It’s an assumption he’s made off the alcohol overindulgence he’s witnessing, but seems likely, all things and verbal cues considered.

“No. Henry and I  _ usually _ spend the time between Christmas and New Year’s watching cheesy movies and eating junk food. But Neal’s decided he wants to be super dad, or some shit, and is taking the kid skiing in Vermont.” Emma’s eyeroll clearly illustrates how she feels about that event. “I really should say  _ my _ kid,” she adds conspiratorially, leaning in closer to Killian. “It’s not like Neal’s ever pulled his weight in the parenting department. Did you know that he didn’t admit that Henry was his until he was five?  _ Five _ !” She pauses for reactions, leaving Killian to rush to make the appropriate outraged noises. “Not that I blame Henry. He deserves to have as much time with his dad as he wants, even if I’m not happy about it. And c’mon - anyone who has to choose between going on a fancy skiing trip and staying home while boring old Mom works is going to choose the vacation,” she finishes bitterly.

“I’m sure Henry loves your traditions, just as much as you do,” Killian tries to reassure, but Emma isn’t having any of it.

“I wouldn’t even be able to do those traditions with him this year,” she laments, suddenly turning morose with a speed only the intoxicated can manage. “I don’t have any right to wish he was sitting at home, bored and miserable, but I  _ miss  _ him.”

This encounter is quickly turning towards the teary, so Killian decides to take charge again to hopefully try and coax Emma home. “Alright, up you get,” he gently prods. “Let’s not get stuck here on the balcony.”

“I’m not stuck,” she insists in true stubborn Emma Swan fashion, but starts working her legs back under the bar all the same, thrusting the water bottle of punch back in Killian’s direction again. As she climbs to her feet, Emma wobbles precariously, and though he probably shouldn’t, Killian quickly snakes his free arm around her waist to steady her.

“Steady on, love,” he can’t help but quip. It makes suppressing his amused smile easier.

Emma remains less than impressed. “You steady on,” she grumbles back, severely testing Killian’s ability to keep from laughing.

“I’ll do my best,” he settles on, just about the only thing he can manage with a straight face. He cautiously removes his hand from her waist, caught between desires to respect her boundaries and also keep her upright, and is wildly relieved when Emma proves able to keep her own balance. “Now, what do you say we get you home, Swan?”

“Don’ wanna go,” she insists in a slur.

“Come now, love, you can’t stay here,” he cajoles. He’d make a ‘Closing Time’ joke, but it seems inappropriate under the circumstances. “Jefferson’s got to lock everything up.”

Still, Emma pouts, a look that in another situation might be a bit adorable. “Don’ wanna go home. It’s lonely there, I don’t  _ want _ to be lonely.” 

Her eyes are starting to get suspiciously watery, which proves to be the breaking point for Killian. The very idea of Emma Swan crying just seems  _ wrong _ . Quickly, he searches his brain for a compromise, before settling on the obvious solution. “Would you feel better if there was someone there to keep you company?” He obviously can’t, for both their sakes, but he’ll figure out something that will work, if she’ll only agree.

Thankfully, she does, nodding her head enthusiastically, tears avoided for the moment. “Can Mary Margaret come over?” she asks, words childish and tone pleading.

“We can certainly ask,” Killian replies diplomatically. He doesn’t see the motherly brunette saying no, though he hopes his call doesn’t interrupt a private moment between her and David Nolan.

“We should,” Emma replies, nodding decisively. “But do I  _ have _ to stand?”

That finally works the laugh past Killian’s lips. “No, we can sit down. Shall we go downstairs, first?”

Another determined nod. “Yeah. We should do that.”

Carefully, they navigate the stairs before Emma settles in a back row seat. Killian turns to go call Mary Margaret - he doesn’t imagine the subject of that call would be much pleased if she heard herself being talked about - but he’s stopped by a frantically tugging hand on his sleeve.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” she demands, fierce tone betrayed by her panicked eyes.

“Of course not, darling, I’ve just got to go call Mary Margaret,” he soothes. Anything to take that gleam from her eyes. “I’ll just be over there,” he gestures, “and I’ll be right back. Is that alright?”

Emma nods, but Killian can’t help but notice the way her eyes still follow him across the room, making sure he’s still in sight. Accommodating her is the least he can do.

Mary Margaret picks up, thank goodness, though she sounds confused that he’s calling at all. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Killian.” She probably knows that already, but it feels like the peak of poor etiquette not to clarify anyways. “I know this is completely out of the blue, but I’m at the theater, and I’ve got Emma here —”

“Is she alright?” Mary Margaret cuts in, a concern bordering on panic cutting through her voice.

“Aye, she’s just fine,” Killian hurries to reassure, “except she’s a bit drunk, and doesn’t want to be alone in her apartment.”

“Oh, I’d be happy to stay with her,” Mary Margaret offers before Killian even asks. “I’ll be down there as soon as I can, David and I were just — I’ll be right down,” she assures, interrupting herself. Probably a good thing, really; Killian doesn’t want to imagine what she and Nolan might have been up to.

“Excellent. Again, I’m sorry to interrupt, but when I suggested we find someone to stay with her Emma immediately asked about you and I thought it would be worth a shot if nothing else.”

“No, no, of course, it’s not a problem at all. She’s my best friend, this is completely in the job description.”

“I’m relieved you think so,” Killian laughs, before pausing to figure out how to broach the topic that needs addressing next. “Just to let you know, she’s, uh… well, she’s a little distraught about Henry’s absence,” he explains.

On the other end of the line, Mary Margaret sighs heavily. “I’m not surprised,” she confides. “She misses him terribly whenever he’s gone, but the holiday season certainly doesn’t help. Thanks for letting me know, Killian.”

“It’s the least I could do,” he responds, somewhat bashfully. “We’ll be settled in the back row of the orchestra level whenever you arrive.”

“Wonderful. I’ll see you soon.”

When Killian works his way back over to Emma, he’s not particularly surprised to find that she’s starting to doze off, head nodding comically as she struggles to stay awake. She still jolts herself back to awareness as he sits down in the neighboring seat. “Is she coming?”

“Aye, Mary Margaret’s on her way,” he assures her. “Now go back to sleep, I’ll wake you up when she gets here.”

“Mmmm, okay,” she murmurs, leaning to rest her head on his shoulder, much to Killian’s surprise. For the most part, he likes to think he’s got a tight rein on his little crush, but it’s moments like this that really highlight how wrong he is about that. It’s an oddly domestic moment they’re having, right here in the middle of the theater, and he can’t say he dislikes it. Now it’s just left to him to rein in his imagination as it suggests all kinds of other scenarios in which Emma might lay her head on his shoulder, both tame and decidedly  _ not _ . Now is  _ not  _ the time for those thoughts.

Lost in his head, it seems like only a moment before Mary Margaret arrives to collect her friend. Emma’s a little grouchy to be roused from her nap, but otherwise the handoff - so to speak - goes perfectly fine, the brunette mouthing a grateful “thank you” in his direction as she leads Emma outside to the waiting cab. Killian follows to see them off - it’s the gentlemanly thing to do - but before long, he’s left alone again with nothing but the fading impression of the weight of Emma’s head on his shoulder.

Happy holidays to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Emma! The morning after won't be fun for anyone...
> 
> Many thanks to @snidgetsafan, my wonderful beta, who's still patient and good to me even when I put off editing until the last minute. Sorry babe - thanks for hanging in there.
> 
> Thanks to all of you who have left comments and kudos! I really appreciate it. If you liked this chapter or the fic in general, let me know! I'd love to hear what you think.
> 
> Also posted on tumblr - I'm @shireness-says. Come give the post some love.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I'll see you next week!


	12. Chapter 11: Why So Silent?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourself for the fallout, guys. Sorry?
> 
> Chapter title taken from Phantom of the Opera, and was suggested by my wonderful beta @snidgetsafan. Look, she names half my chapters, but can you really blame me for taking advantage of that when she has such good suggestions?
> 
> Hope you still like me at the end of this!

Emma wakes up in her bed the day after the holiday party with a headache, dry mouth, and regret. Plenty of regret.

At first, it’s just a vague regret, one she attributes to the knowledge she drank too much and an all-too-keen awareness of how her brain is pounding in her head, attempting to forcibly squeeze out through her ears. As she readjusts to the waking world, however, it all comes rushing back. The holiday party. Drinking on the balcony.  _ Killian. _

_ Fuck. _

Images of the night before flash behind her eyelids and Emma groans, and not just from the physical pain. God, she was a mess. Mortification courses through her veins, leaving Emma tempted to just crawl underneath the covers again and never come back out. She just might have done it, too, if the bedroom door hadn’t squealed open at that exact moment.  _ I really need to get some Pam on those hinges _ , Emma idly thinks as she flops her head over to face the door and is met by Mary Margaret’s head, cautiously peeking through the crack. That hesitance doesn’t last long, though, as once her friend ascertains that Emma is indeed awake, she fully walks through the door with a perky smile on her face and cups of what Emma can only hope is  _ very _ strong coffee in her hands.

“I thought I heard you!” she chirps, pulling an apologetic face when Emma winces at the pitch. Honestly, fuck this hangover. “Sorry,” she says in a much mellower tone of voice. “Here, have some coffee.”

“Oh thank god,” Emma responds, hastily reaching for the offered cup. “You’re a living saint, Mary Margaret.”

“There’s bagels in the kitchen, too, if you feel up to getting out of bed. Oh! And,” she chirps, sending another stab of pain through Emma’s skull as she starts fishing through her pockets, finally coming up with a small plastic tube, “I found Advil. Just my little travel size, but it’ll work, right?”

Emma nods as best she can when attempting to inhale her coffee, motioning with her free hand to hand over one of the capsules. “Thanks,” she rasps when Mary Margaret hands the little salmon-colored tablets over to her. A thought strikes her suddenly, a drunken half-memory creeping through, and Emma groans again. “Don’t tell me you slept on the couch last night.”

“I didn’t sleep on the couch last night,” Mary Margaret reassures, before pausing. Somehow, there’s a sense of a ‘but’ coming, though there really shouldn’t be. Sure enough, though, Mary Margaret continues. “I slept in Henry’s room.”

“Oh, M’s…” Emma groans. “You didn’t have to do that!”

“Oh, I think I did,” she argues right back. “You were very insistent last night that you didn’t want to be left alone.”

“Of fucking course I was,” Emma mutters to herself.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mary Margaret offers kindly, ever the mother.

Easy answer, that. “Nope,” Emma answers curtly. Fueled by embarrassment and a desire to get as far away as possible from this conversation, she manages to swing her legs out from under the covers and haul herself out of bed to make her way to the bathroom, though she regrets it all the while. Cold air and nausea-inducing movement are much less pleasant than the cozy warmth of the many layers of blankets on her bed.

Brushing her teeth and taking a moment to look marginally less gross helps, but Emma’s still not quite ready to dissect the whole thing with Mary Margaret. Unfortunately, her friend isn’t quite on the same page. Emma had anticipated as such, and is already braced and ready when she walks back in to find some clothes.

Sure enough, Mary Margaret tries to jump in as soon as she walks back into the room. “If you want to talk about last night, Emma — ”

“Don’t you have that appointment this morning?” Emma quickly interrupts, the words already waiting on her tongue. “Miss Blue  _ really _ won’t be pleased if you’re late, and it’s already almost nine. You’ve got to get going if you want to stop at your place before the theater.” There may or may not have been an incident Tuesday evening where a seam in one of Mary Margaret’s gowns was ripped while she and David were playing tonsil hockey (or whatever the kids say these days). Ruby had quickly tacked it for Wednesday’s matinee, but the production’s petite yet intimidating costume designer had wanted to supervise the permanent repair, supposedly to ensure the fit was correct. Personally, Emma suspects that Mary Margaret is in for a talking-to. If her friend’s blanched face upon initially receiving word of her appointment was any indication, Mary Margaret thinks the same. It’s a low, dirty move of a distraction, but Emma knows M’s won’t risk being late to a professional obligation - both for her own sake and for Emma’s, knowing that these kind of snafus directly increase the amount of stress Emma has to deal with.

The look Mary Margaret gives her is unimpressed - the look of a woman who knows exactly what Emma’s attempting and is not fooled in the least. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this,” she warns. “I’m just about to leave because you just  _ happen _ to be correct about the time, not because I’m letting you drop this subject. We  _ will _ pick this up later, and you’ll feel better for it afterwards. Promise?”

Emma hums noncommittally. She’d much prefer to drop the whole thing and pretend it never happened until the end of time. That doesn’t fly with her friend however, as Mary Margaret’s unimpressed look only sharpens.

“I’m serious, Emma. Promise me we’ll talk about it later?”

“Yes, fine,  _ Mom _ , I promise,” Emma sighs in exasperation, rolling her eyes. The latter was probably a bad idea; it doesn’t help the headache in the least. “Now for the love of God, get out of here before you’re late.”

“Alright,”  Mary Margaret agrees, somewhat hesitantly. “But call me if you need anything, ok? And make sure you eat that bagel, the bread and the protein in the cream cheese will do you good.”

“I will, ok?” Emma all but snaps. Subconsciously, she knows that she’s only reacting in this way due to embarrassment, but for the moment she just wants Mary Margaret out of her apartment, good intentions aside, so that she can wallow in her mortification in peace.

A flash of guilt streaks through Emma as her friend fixes her with a disapproving stare, but Mary Margaret still gathers her coat and heads for the door. “I’m just trying to help, Emma,” she says quietly, disappointment coloring her voice and turning the flash of guilt into a deeply stabbing knife.

Emma sighs, deflating. “I know. I’m sorry,” she says. “Blame it on the hangover. I’ll be better once I get some food into my system. I’ll see you tonight, alright?”

“Alright,” Mary Margaret agrees, before stepping forward to envelop Emma in a tight hug. “Feel better,” she whispers. With a last squeeze she departs, leaving Emma to the silence of her empty apartment.

(Somehow, even though it’s exactly what she wanted mere minutes ago, she hates every silent second of it.)

———

She’s an absolute child, is the thing, between the clinginess last night and her outburst this morning. Might as well go for the hat trick of immaturity and react to her embarrassment by avoiding all witnesses to the event that’s warranted it. Mary Margaret she’s avoiding for obvious reasons - Emma has no intention to discuss the matter, but knows her traitor mouth might betray her anyways when faced with her friend’s gentle insistence. Killian though… she knows he isn’t judging her for her behavior, can see it in the gentle smiles he offers her, and doubts he’d make her discuss the matter, but Emma avoids him all the same out of shame. Merely being in his presence makes her burn with embarrassment at the memory of that evening, and she seeks to evade any reminders of that whenever possible. He doesn’t deserve this treatment, which makes Emma feel slightly guilty - Killian’s a genuinely good guy, kind and charming and (dare she say it?) handsome, someone who she’d want to know more intimately under different circumstances - but she’s compelled to act on a self-preservational instinct.

New Year’s passes with Emma ducking around corners and passing secondhand messages. Henry eventually returns from his vacation with his dad, less enchanted with skiing than before he left - “It’s  _ hard _ , Mom, and who wants to be out in the cold all day?” - Emma’s good mood returning with him, but another Wednesday comes and goes with her avoidance tactics still in full force. Seeing Emma cheery again, Mary Margaret seems inclined to let go of her determined attempts to dissect the incident now that a week has passed, and Emma can almost put the whole thing behind her. Still, though, the memory persists, and with it, Emma’s avoidance of Killian.

It won’t last forever - at least, she doesn’t think so - but for now,  a mere week and some change later , the tactic is here to stay.

———

Emma is avoiding him. Again.

It feels a bit like two months ago again, except this time, Killian can’t figure out what he did wrong. All he knows is that Emma is avoiding him at all costs, ducking around corners when she sees him coming and relaying messages through intermediaries when necessary. And it  _ hurts _ . 

Thinking back, the closest he can figure is that all this started right after the Christmas party, when he watched over Emma in her intoxicated state. Though he meant well, he must have overstepped her boundaries that evening. With growing sadness, Killian realizes he likely blew any chance he might have had of even remaining friends with Emma with what must have been a blatant disregard of her understandable restrictions and concerns. Even if he just meant to make sure she was alright, he must have come off as a real arse. Eventually, he’ll be kicking himself over the whole thing, but for the moment he just feels sad. 

He misses her, is the thing, even though he feels like he doesn’t deserve to, not since this is all his fault.  He’d thought they were making such good progress too ; a simple conversation with Emma can brighten his whole day, and without that to look forward to, everything seems dimmer. He misses her sarcasm, and her dry sense of humor, the way she doesn’t mince her words and snorts when she laughs, the way her smiles may not be easy to earn (except  for where her boy is concerned ), but  _ so  _ worth it when they make an appearance. He’s fully aware that he’s a pathetic bastard, but ultimately, he can’t help it.

Though Killian is sure everyone has noticed by now how desperate Emma is to avoid him, and how morose he is in turn, it’s Robin of all people who broaches the subject and stops tiptoeing around the matter.

“How are you doing, Killian?” he asks, voice filled with more concern that Killian really deserves. He’d come up to the booth for a meeting they should never have needed to have about finding his spot, Killian frustratingly distracted by his emotional turmoil and nearly missing his marks two days in a row. Ostensibly, they’d met to review where Killian needed to stand each time and whether Robin needed to adjust anything, but it seems more like an excuse for Robin to prod him about the source of the distraction rather than the side effects it creates.

Killian initially just shrugs, humming noncommittally at the other man’s inquiry. It feels a bit weird getting into this with Robin - though they get along well enough, he doesn’t actually know Robin that well, and the lighting designer is definitely more Emma’s friend than Killian’s. There’s a bad joke about losing friends in the platonic divorce bubbling at the back of his throat, but his persistent melancholy keeps it from finding a voice. Ironic, this - he and Emma have switched places emotionally from the circumstances that started all this.

“Really, now,” the other man persists, “I know something’s the matter. Emma’s been acting odd all week, and you’ve seemed down ever since. Now, I may not be some rocket scientist or statistics whiz,” he jokes, “but I’m sensing a correlation. So: how are you doing, Killian?”

Faced with that gentle opposition, Killian cracks. Perhaps it’s a sign that he’s wanted to talk about this all along with someone who knows all the players. “I don’t even know what’s the matter, not really,” he confides. “I just know that for some reason, Emma is avoiding me.” Privately, he suspects it’s a direct result of the events of the other night, but he doesn’t feel comfortable sharing the details without Emma’s knowledge or permission. It hurts, knowing that despite his best efforts to assist Emma as best he can while still respecting her boundaries - her  _ reasonable _ boundaries, which he agrees with - she still feels avoidance to be necessary. “I think we all know how I feel about Emma,” he chuckles, the words eliciting a snort from Robin in return, “but I’m starting to wonder if maybe I should just… let it go. Find a way to move past my feelings. Not because I want to,” he hastens to add, “but because  _ she  _ seems to want me to. I’m willing to be persistent, but after a certain point… it all seems like a hint to go away. And maybe it’s about time I took that hint.”

Robin just stares back, more skeptical than Killian expected. Granted, he hadn’t expected skepticism at all, so any amount is rather unexpected. “Seriously?”

“... Yes?”

Robin lets out a snort. “Oh lord. Killian, my good man, let me tell you a secret.” He leans in conspiratorially, Killian meeting him halfway out of some bizarre sense of courtesy. Robin, the absolute bastard, lets the moment dramatically sit a moment longer before whispering melodramatically, “ _ Emma’s got a thing for you too. _ ”

Killian rears back, face suddenly twisting into an expression of annoyed disbelief as Robin raises his eyebrows knowingly. “Really?” he deadpans. “Now that’s just mean. Childish, even, taunting a man like that.”

“I’m serious!” Robin protests. “She absolutely, one-hundred-percent has a thing for you. If you want to get truly childish, really embrace this middle-school mentality you’re accusing me of,” he smirks, “then I’d say she likes you.  _ Likes _ likes you. Please, trust the man shut into a woefully small space with her every day on this one.”

Still, Killian scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve seen absolutely no proof of that.”

“Yes, well, you’re not the one witnessing the banter and the little blushing smiles and the way she stares at your arse in that costume. Seriously, mate, it’s almost nauseating. Not quite as bad as Nolan and Blanchard, but…” he trails off, his point clear.

“She never said anything!” Killian weakly protests. Like that’s a thing people actually do - walk up and tell the object of their affections how they feel.

“Yes, well, that would require Emma actually being willing to admit to herself that she fancies you, and that’s proven to be a stretch too far,” Robin parries, voice dry but sage, before softening. “Look, if you want my advice, don’t give up on her yet. I know from experience - the best ones will lead you on a merry chase,” he tells Killian somewhat wistfully. Killian almost cracks a jab about the other man’s own enamorment of Regina Mills, but restrains himself upon seeing the melancholy-tinged reminiscence gracing Robin’s face, instead waiting for the man to reveal his train of thought in his own time.

Shortly, Robin seems to remember Killian’s presence, smiling sheepishly. “My wife - Marian, her name was - was an opera singer, part of the chorus at the Met, back when I was just some young upstart, full of confidence and no real chance to prove it yet. It was love at first sight on my part, as cliche as that sounds, and she had approximately  _ no _ time or patience for me, some young puppy following at her heels,” he laughs, eyes crinkling in a way that Killian knows is caused by warm memories. “But whether out of hope or determination or pure obliviousness, I held out hope, and look what it got me. Five of the happiest years of my life and a wonderful son.” He smiles, face flooded with the look of a truly content man. “Look, you have to do whatever is best for you, I understand and support that one hundred percent. I just want to encourage you not to throw in the towel just yet - not while I still think there’s hope.”

The words are comforting, and even if Killian was feeling somewhat despondent just minutes before, he’s suddenly reinvigorated with a new sense of just what Robin urged him to have - hope. “Thank you,” he replies softly, a small smile starting to form on his face. “That’s, uh…” he pauses, not sure how to continue, how to express the bolstering impact Robin’s had with his words, and settles for simple gratitude instead. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Robin smiles back, offering a comforting and companionable pat on the shoulder before turning back to the task at hand. “Now, let me show you again  _ exactly _ where the spot is gonna hit, even if you really ought to know this by now, and I’ll have you go mark it, okay?”

———

She should have known she wouldn’t be able to avoid all interactions forever, or at least not those with Mary Margaret. Emma could swear the petite brunette has magic, what with the way she always seems to appear just when Emma is hoping to avoid her. Who knows, maybe the name of that pixie cut denotes more than just a style, and is instead a hint that Mary Margaret is actually a devious fairy. Stranger things have happened, surely.

Regardless of whether or not Mary Margaret possesses magical teleportation powers, that doesn’t change the fact that she eventually catches up to Emma, her face displaying that awful combination of half hurt and half disappointment usually only displayed by parents (or so Emma’s heard).

“Are we ever going to talk about the Christmas party?” she asks in a tone that suggests she thinks it’s been more than long enough of a wait.

“Not if I can help it,” Emma mumbles back under her breath, but Mary Margaret’s keen ears catch the words all the same. 

“Emma, you can’t run from this conversation forever,” she scolds. “I know you don’t want to rehash it, but I really think you’ll feel better once you do. It’ll let you stop lingering on it.”

“I’m not lingering on anything,” Emma argues. “Henry’s home again, so everything’s fine. And, not to gloat or anything, but he didn’t have nearly as much fun as he expected. I’m still my kid’s favorite, all’s right with the world, no need to talk through whatever last Wednesday was. I’m good, really.”

Mary Margaret stares back skeptically, that disapproving frown still dominating her face. “Really, you’re good?” she demands. “You sure you’re not lingering? Because avoiding — ” she interrupts herself to peer around, seemingly checking that no one is listening — “avoiding Killian doesn’t seem like something a person who’s completely past the matter would do.”

“I’m not avoiding Killian,” Emma insists stubbornly. “I can’t help if we haven’t run into each other this week. It happens.”

“Oh, please,” Mary Margaret shoots back. “I’m optimistic, not stupid. You’ve practically run in the other direction whenever you see him coming. It’s a damn good thing there haven’t been any major issues you were both involved in the past few days, or God only knows how that would have been resolved.”

Well, she’s got Emma there. “So what if I am? Seems like that’s my business. What does it matter to you?”

“I just want you to be happy, Emma,” Mary Margaret wheedles in that way of hers. The pure cloying sentiment of her words and intent nearly make Emma gag. “And this hasn’t been a happy week for you. I can only imagine this self-imposed separation from Killian - usually one of your greatest supporters - is part of that. What happened?” She gasps suddenly. “Oh god, he didn’t do anything before I picked you up, did he?”

“No, no, God no,” Emma rushes to reassure.

“What then? I can’t understand it.”

“Look, I’m embarrassed, ok?” Emma snaps. “I was not at my best that night, and I don’t really want to face what Jones - one of my coworkers - thinks of me after that display, pity or disgust or whatever else. I don’t want to deal with it, so I haven’t.”

There’s an unexpected snort from behind the women, and Emma whirls to see Regina, standing there looking deeply amused. “You’re aware that Jones thinks the sun shines out of your ass, right?”

Mary Margaret gasps next to Emma, though it’s more likely that she’s less shocked over Regina’s presence than about her use of language. Figures.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” Regina clarifies somewhat haughtily, “it’s just that neither of you are particularly good at watching your volume. But I say again: you  _ do _ know that Jones thinks you personally are responsible for the sun coming up each morning? Thinks you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread? That you hung the stars? Etcetera, etcetera, must I continue?”

“She’s got a point, Emma,” Mary Margaret contributes, her tone vaguely apologetic.

Regina smiles smugly at that, before continuing. “Look, I’m just saying, I don’t think there’s much that would change his mind, and that probably includes whatever you did the other night that you’re so embarrassed about. Did you hit him?”

“No,” Emma replies, rolling her eyes.

“Insult his mother?”

“No.”

“Run down the street buck-ass naked declaring your allegiance to some space alien dictatorship?”

“Christ Almighty, no!” God, where did Regina even come up with that?

“Ok, then I’m sure he doesn’t blame you for anything. And anyone with two eyes can see that you don’t need or want pity, which is pretty effective at keeping it away. So what are you worrying about?” Her tone softens somewhat at the stubborn set of Emma’s jaw (a stubborn expression that hides her insecurity about the whole matter, but Regina doesn’t need to know that). “Look, you can do whatever you want, Miss Swan. Lord knows we certainly can’t stop you,” she declares with a knowing look to Mary Margaret, “but what I can tell you - and I’m sure Miss Blanchard can as well - Jones has seemed sad and confused and even hurt ever since you began your little avoidance game. The way I see it, you’re protecting yourself from something that isn’t going to happen anyways, and we’re all witnessing the fallout. If you don’t want anything to do with Jones, that’s fine, that’s your prerogative, but you can’t keep up this ridiculous ducking around corners and speaking through the ASMs. Let it go on long enough, and it’s going to undermine your power - which I’m  _ sure _ is the last thing you want.”

Emma hadn’t thought of it like that, far too caught up in her immediate mortification to truly think through its consequences. Hell, the entire reason she gave for turning Killian down in the first place was fear of a relationship affecting things at work; according to Regina, Emma’s brought exactly what she feared to come to pass, without even the benefit of a relationship as an excuse. Fan-fucking-tastic. She groans in realization.

“Yes, I think that about sums it up,” Regina comments drily. Emma shoots her a glare in response - entirely warranted, in her opinion, especially since Regina’s opinion is so unasked for.

“We don’t want to guilt you, Emma,” Mary Margaret puts in more gently, shooting her own look in Regina’s direction as the latter sounds a dissenting hum. “Like I said: we just want you to be happy, and this? This isn’t making you - or Killian, for that matter - happy.”

(Emma think that statement is effectively the same thing as guilting her, but she doesn’t have the energy right now to argue that.)

“Look, I’ll think about everything you both said. Happy?” Even if Mary Margaret and Regina are correct, Emma’s not really in the mood to admit it right now. 

Mary Margaret nods, though the movement seems reluctant. It’s the best she’s going to get right now, though, so she’ll have to be happy with it. “But about the thing with Neal and Henry - ”

“Honestly, I haven’t even thought about that since Henry returned. Funny how that solved the issue. Really, Mary Margaret, can we just drop it? I’ll admit to ‘lingering’ or whatever, but honestly, the Henry and Neal thing that started it all has been the furthest thing from my mind. Which means no need to to talk about it or… whatever.”

“If you’re sure…” Mary Margaret finally agrees hesitantly.

“God, yes, I’m sure. It’s my one real dream to drop this. Please. Immediately. Like, yesterday.” That, at least, draws a laugh out of even Regina, Mary Margaret shaking her head with affection. “Now, I think we all have things to do or places we’d rather be, so can we, you know,  _ get to it _ instead of standing around doing whatever this is?”

By some miracle, both women comply, even if Mary Margaret is hesitant. Eventually, Emma will probably appreciate the conversation they’ve all just suffered through, but for now, she just wants to be alone.

After all, she’s got an awful lot to think about.

———

In the end, things go back to normal out of Emma’s own volition - no more pestering friends and, unlike last time, no need for Killian to come convince her. The insecure part of Emma whispers that the fact that he wasn’t fighting for her and their… whatever dynamic this time is a sign that his affections have changed, that he’s no longer interested in her in any way, romantic or otherwise, but his near-palpable relief when Emma breaks her silence to ask him if he’s seen Belle dispels that notion.

“Missed you, Swan!” he calls with a wink (well, his facsimile of a wink) as she wanders off in the indicated direction.

(And if she blushes at the return of his casual affection, well, that’s her business - as is the acknowledgement that she maybe missed him too.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, that was a bit painful. But Emma got there (mostly) by herself this time, instead of Killian having to beg! I'm calling that progress.
> 
> Thanks goes to the aforementioned beta, @snidgetsafan, who talked me down from a lot of my worries about this chapter. You're still the best, babe.
> 
> Also posted on tumblr; I'm @shireness-says. Come give this some love over there.
> 
> I love seeing all your kudos and comments! Thanks for all your responses.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	13. Chapter 12: Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack, sorry this is later than usual! Thanksgiving, relatives descending, you know the drill.
> 
> This chapter is another one that was never supposed to happen, but did anyways, and I'm still very pleased with the result. It's fun, and has some of my favorite Mary Margaret dialogue. I hope you like it too!
> 
> Title taken from "The Music Man".

There’s probably statistics about how just when things seem to be going great, a new crisis will suddenly appear. If there’s not already, Emma would like to fund that study, especially in light of recent news.

Richard Gold, noted television producer, better known to the cast as Belle’s Asshole Ex, will be attending a performance of  _ Pride & Prejudice _ .

In the wild round of Telephone that is the theater gossip chain, Emma hears the news from the source - Jefferson, their front of house manager, who received the email inquiry about tickets in the first place and who comes to Emma demanding to know what to do about it.

“Well, I’d imagine we sell him a ticket,” Emma replies dryly in an amusing contrast to her colleague’s somewhat manic demand for guidance.

“We could not. Or conveniently have sold out of tickets for that night,” Jefferson shoots back eagerly. It’s obvious what his opinion is on the matter.

“Or, again, we could sell him a ticket,” Emma reiterates. “What would you do if he then requested a different show date?” Jefferson opens his mouth again, no doubt with another brilliantly dubious idea, but she quickly throws up a hand and shakes her head to stall that statement. “No, don’t actually finish that. You and I both know that the man is slimy and immoral, everyone here agrees on that, but I think we all  _ also _ know that he’s not above spreading nasty news and rumors, and we don’t need to encourage that by refusing him admittance - which he  _ will _ twist into something awful in the press. So we’re going to sell him a ticket at the regular price - yes, I know what your next approach was, Jefferson, don’t try to deny it - and we’re going to be the bigger person or whatever.”

“Fine,” Jefferson grumbles, face pulled into a frown in an obvious demonstration of his dissent. “But there’s no aisle seats left and the closest seats on the orchestra level are either front row or row 10.”

Emma lifts an eyebrow in question. “Is that true?”

Jefferson shrugs, the slightly manic and mischievous smile making a reappearance. “Hell if I know.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but accepts what she recognizes as his compromise. “Fine. Not front row, though; Belle doesn’t need to see that face from the stage.”

Jefferson nods, but there’s a devious glint to his eye as he turns away to rush back to the box office, and Emma can’t help but feel that he’s up to something.

“Remember, we’re  _ being the better people! _ ” she calls, Jefferson waving a hand in an acknowledgement that he heard her words. Whether he’ll heed them remains to be seen; Emma hopes she won’t have to put out any other fires later.

She’s much relieved when Jefferson returns at the end of the day with a smug look on his face and an update on the situation. 

“Richard Gold has been sold a box seat. It’s close to the stage and still carries that air of superiority he should be pleased with,” he informs Emma.

“What’s the catch?” she asks. Somehow, Jefferson seems much too pleased with the news for someone who didn’t want to be so obliging in the first place.

Sure enough, Jefferson chuckles at her prodding. “Well, I examined the seating charts, and remembered I had one last open seat in a box mostly filled by a bachelorette party…”

Emma can’t help but snort, picturing the uptight and snobbish producer in a small space with a bunch of giggling, tipsy women. “Oh, what a coincidence,” she replies dryly. “We’d hate to waste one of those single seats.”

“I thought you might see it my way.”

———

Somehow, word trickles down to the cast about the terrible, horrible,  _ catastrophic _ news that bloody fucking Gold will be coming to see the show. Killian is incensed on Belle’s behalf; the absolute  _ nerve _ of that bastard, showing up here. There’s a whole list of things Killian would like to do to the man, none of which either Belle or Swan would approve of.

Belle takes the news… well, about as well as expected. Which is to say, not well at all. Killian isn’t quite sure how the news made it to her - he’s certain Emma wouldn’t let that secret slip to anyone, let alone Belle, so it must have been an unfortunate case of someone eavesdropping or otherwise overhearing information they shouldn’t - but the theater gossip chain is nothing if not efficient, and somehow, it reaches her ears. Rather than shutting down - the route Killian probably would have taken in her shoes, completely retreating into himself and his innermost fears - Belle throws herself into a nearly manic efficiency, preparing and overpreparing all of her lines and choreography and all the things she already knows better than he does, perhaps better than any of them do.

“I’m worried about her,” Will confides as Killian joins him in the wings, watching Belle run lines with Regina again and again. The haughty brunette had surprised them all by turning almost maternal with Belle in her moment of crisis, patiently assisting Belle with whatever new aspect her panicking mind decides needs to be reviewed yet again and assuring her all the while that she’s doing beautifully, wonderfully,  _ perfectly _ .

“I don’t think she’s stopped to actually process it,” her concerned boyfriend continues. “She heard the news and just jumped straight into all this,” Will says, gesturing to the scene in front of them in illustration. “I don’t think she’s really thought through that she might actually have to face him, really face-to-face, and she’ll have to figure out how she’s going to react - either as herself or as Elizabeth. Brace herself for that possibility, or whatever. I just don’t want that… fuckin’  _ demon _ breaking or hurting her again, you know?” Will’s face is earnest as he finishes, but Killian can still spot traces of the absolute fury burning underneath - a rage Killian feels himself on his friend’s behalf.

“We won’t let that happen,” he vows, clapping the scrappy deck captain on the back. “I know you’ll do anything to keep her safe and happy off-stage, and I’ll do the same onstage. Well, myself and most of the rest of the cast as well,” he amends. “We’re all quite worked up on her behalf, believe me.”

Will offers a small smile, one Killian senses is still tempered by worry. He can’t blame the other man for that. “Thanks.” They stand for a moment longer, just observing the scene before them before the smile suddenly morphs into a chuckle. “You’re right on the cast being worked up thing,” he explains. “Christ, have you seen Mary Margaret? Seems so sweet, but it turns out she’s a bleedin’ menace when provoked.”

Killian can’t help but chuckle to at the memory of his petite costar, suddenly turned unexpectedly menacing from her normally almost sickly-sweet personality. “Aye, she’s certainly fiercer than expected. A little scary too, if I’m being honest,” he admits, causing Will to bark out a laugh. “But as it turns out, a good person to have on your side.  _ I, _ for one, wouldn’t want to go against her. Last I heard, she was trying to figure out some speech or grand gesture we could make.”

“Lord help us all,” Will groans. “Either that bastard’s doomed, or we are with that display.”

“Yeah, but do you want to stand in her way?”

“Not on my life, thanks mate,” Will is quick to reply.

“Nor I, mate. Nor I.”

———

Emma doesn’t hear about her cast’s dramatic plans until it’s almost too late, the day before Gold is expected to attend. It’s not that she’s not paying attention - she is, as best she can, trying to make sure that Belle is holding up alright since, despite Emma’s efforts, the news has gotten out - but she’s  _ busy _ . There’s an awful lot that goes into making sure a show runs smoothly and she’s already needed in about twelve places at once  _ constantly _ and that means she misses the gossip sometimes, ok? Plus, considering that Mary Margaret is apparently the mastermind behind all this plotting - that woman is just full of surprises sometimes, honestly - it’s probably not a happy accident that Emma hasn’t heard about it. Her longtime friend probably took all the knowledge she has from years of experience to keep all this  _ just _ below Emma’s radar. Regardless of when she heard or how she didn’t find out sooner, the fact remains that Emma needs to put a stop to it. What was it she told Jefferson during his own moment of vindictiveness? They’ve got to be the better person? Sounds like it’s time to call a production meeting and spread that news to the rest of the cast and crew.

It’s easy enough to convince Regina to keep Belle distracted; Emma had been shocked to see the way their Caroline had stepped up while Belle frantically tried to preoccupy her mind with perfecting every element of the show, exhibiting a near saint-like patience Emma didn’t think Regina was capable of. It’s even easier to enlist Scarlet as backup on the off chance that Regina’s determination to direct Belle’s attention literally anywhere else fails. No, the place where Emma runs into problems is in convincing everyone else to knock it off, immediately.

Somehow, probably through some kind of miracle that will never be replicated again, Emma manages to corral everyone into the third floor dressing rooms and mezzanine on stage left. Unfortunately, that’s where the miracle stops, Emma meeting resistance to her declaration that they absolutely  _ cannot _ make whatever big statement they’re planning.

“Why not? Don’t you think he deserves it?” Mary Margaret demands. It’s very out of character for her usually sweet tempered friend; seeing her sitting there in her costume but no wig Emma is suddenly struck with the bizarre image of Mary Margaret with pitchfork in hand, storming the audience Beauty and the Beast-style.

“Oh, he definitely deserves that lecture or glitter cannon or whatever,” Emma agrees, wincing internally when Mary Margaret’s face lights up at the latter suggestion. Great - she never meant to give them _ideas_ of how to go about it. “I’ll be the first one to agree that he’s a slimy son of a bitch, but look, no matter how much we want to throttle the bastard, or castrate the douchebag, or... whatever the kids say these days — ”  
“Cut a bitch,” Mary Margaret helpfully supplies, tone off-puttingly cheerful for the subject at hand. Emma can see David, ever the supportive boyfriend, trying to smother a chuckle at his girlfriend’s sudden bloodlust.

“... Yes. That.” Honestly, Emma never thought she’d see the day such words came out of the petite and mild-mannered brunette’s mouth, and it’s pure shock that keeps her from breaking into laughter immediately. “As much as we want to…  _ cut a bitch _ ,” she continues, stumbling over the words that should be more comfortable in her mouth, “we’ve got to be the better people, or some shit. I want Richard Gold to get what’s coming to him as much as the next person, but we are still a young show. We’re not yet in a position to risk whatever positive momentum we have in making a grand statement that a lot of people won’t believe, as much as we want to.” A good amount of grumbling follows, and Emma’s struck with another tactic - well, not really a tactic. A point. A point she hadn’t thought of previously, that would probably be more compelling to everyone else. 

So she easily turns it into a new tactic. “And what would it do to Belle?” she asks. “It’d raise the whole issue again. She’d be horribly embarrassed by that all, knowing her.” It’s all true, even if Emma’s using that to her own advantage right now. She’s a terrible person for it; so sue her.

It does the trick though, the discontented murmurings quieting and giving way to more sympathetic sounds. 

“You’re not wrong, Swan,” Killian chimes in from somewhere in the back.  _ Finally, some support _ , Emma can’t help but think. “Belle’s done her best to put this all behind her. It’d be particularly bad form to play any role in undoing that. And as much as it’s tempting to stand up for her in some public way, it’d make more of a spectacle than I imagine she wants.”

“Yes, exactly! Thank you, Killian,” Emma rushes to agree. “So, that being said, will you all  _ promise _ me not to make a spectacle and behave yourself? I don’t want to threaten fines, but I can.” Looking around the room, she’s pleased to see a sea of nodding heads to match the assenting noises. Well, most of a sea of nodding heads. “Mary Margaret, I didn’t get your agreement.”

“Fine,” the other woman huffs, “but you can’t make me be happy about it.” God, Emma hopes this weird alternate-reality Mary Margaret goes away soon; it’s really weirding her out. 

“Good enough for me,” Emma allows. “Alright, good talk everyone. Let’s go put on another great show.” 

With those magic words chaos reigns again, the volume amping up as every disperses in a chatty mess. Seeing a gap in the crowd, Emma shoulders her way down the stairs, only to find Killian following just behind as she steps off at the bottom.

“Another inspiring speech, oh fearless leader,” he teases. “Consider us all put in our place.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well, I shouldn’t have had to do so in the first place. My God, did you hear Mary Margaret? It was like attack of the body snatchers in there - I didn’t think she had a single vengeful bone in her body, but boy was I proved wrong tonight.”

“Aye, that was… surprising. Mildly terrifying, quite frankly,” he admits. “Let me put it this way - I’d want her on  _ my _ side in a fight.”

“You’re telling me,” Emma mutters back, before switching to sincerity. “Hey, thanks for backing me up back there, I think you really helped convince —” Abruptly she’s cut off by a sneezing fit, Killian forced to stop walking to let it pass without running into anything. “You alright?” she asks when the sneezing finally abates, mildly concerned by the length of the episode.

“I’ll be fine,” he reassures. “I think I’ve got a little something coming on, but I’ve been taking plenty of fluids and Airborne and vitamin C. I’ll hold out through tomorrow just fine,” he makes sure to emphasize. 

That does put Emma’s mind at ease a bit. Obviously, the health of her cast and crew comes first, but they’ve got a heavy weight hanging over tomorrow evening’s performance and she feels slightly better knowing that her male lead will be there.

“Let me know if you need to take a day though, okay?” she requests. “Lord knows Arthur’s biting at the bit to take a turn as Darcy, we’ll live without you if need be.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Swan, thank you,” he replies. “But in the meantime, I should be fine.”

Somehow, they’ve crossed the stage to the back hallway, a place Emma doesn’t really need to go. It’s just so easy to follow Jones, though, a deep-seated desire for his company leading her astray of her own path. She sighs heavily before turning to leave. “Keep me posted,” she says by way of farewell, receiving a rather solemn nod in response. Emma’s halfway across the stage before she turns back, a final quip on her lips to make Killian laugh. “And for God’s sake, stay out of trouble!”

(If his responding laugh leaves Emma grinning all the way back up to the booth, well, that’s her business.)

———

He promises Emma that he’ll behave himself, but the thing is that it’s much harder to keep that promise than it is to make it.

The evening of the fateful performance - a Friday evening show - dawns with a sense of anticipation hanging in the air, the tension almost palpable. Everyone goes about their pre-show rituals with a single-minded determination Killian’s only seen matched on their opening night, special attention paid to every stroke of makeup and costume piece in an effort to make everything perfect for Belle’s sake. It’s the least he can do, Killian thinks, and he suspects everyone else feels the same.

The lady herself is still hanging in there and wearing a brave face (though Killian does detect a shake to her hands as they wait in the wings for the curtain to rise). She’s much more composed than he would be under the circumstances, but that’s Belle for you - somehow exuding serenity even when he doubts she feels it. It helps that none of them know where the bastard is seated; Emma’s managed to keep that information close to the vest, probably to ensure that no one has the information they’d need to most effectively make the scene she’d so sternly warned against.

Emma had warned them so sternly, and he  _ had _ promised, but a rumor had circled down at intermission from one of the crew members that the old bastard was sitting in the second box on the left and Killian just can’t  _ help _ himself. It won’t be anything he can really be reprimanded for anyways; he’s not even going off script. But there’s a line in his big solo post intermission where he sings the contents of the letter to Elizabeth while she reads and reacts across the stage about  _ wolves in the guise of lambs  _ and it’s just  _ too  _ perfect to pass up. He’ll deal with Emma after the fact if it comes to that; technically, he’ll just have only said the line he was supposed to, even if it’s a bit more pointed than usual. They’ll never be able to prove it if he just  _ happens _ to be looking towards the second box on the left while singing. He’ll be on stage right anyways; from there, he might be looking anywhere, just by virtue of turning his body out to the audience.

He had promised, but as he watches Belle reach for the reassurance of Will Scarlet’s hand as the two minute lights flash, it’s easy for Killian to decide to break that promise.

He still can’t see the man’s face, bright stage lights obscuring his view of anything beyond the front row, but Killian feels a rush of exhilaration all the same. The words slide off his tongue with a surety he’s certain he’s never felt on stage before, fueled by the sheer need to  _ do something _ when faced with a surreptitious enemy. His words are a subtle “fuck you” to the man the whole production has united in despising, and Killian can’t help but revel in his moment, feeling like some kind of avenging angel.

He probably shouldn’t have sprung it on Belle, he thinks after the fact. It’s not the kind of thing you should do on someone’s behalf without prior warning. Their saving grace is that the entire song is a Darcy solo; though Belle does look somewhat shocked on the other side of the stage, it can easily be written off to the audience as a reaction to the letter’s contents. She’s able to recollect herself by the scene transition, her introspection disguising the change from the Hunsford parsonage back to Longbourn, and if Killian hadn’t witnessed her moment of shock himself, he never would have known it happened.

The adrenaline of his small rebellion easily carries him through the rest of the show, practically floating on feelings of vindication and pride, but that energy practically rushes back out of him as soon as the curtain falls. The hangover of the chemical reaction leaves him exhausted; living on the edge for the greater good is fine and dandy, but in the aftermath, Killian just wants to crawl into bed and sleep for a decade, even more than he usually does after a show. It doesn’t help that he can feel himself getting sick, even despite his best efforts. Fluids and vitamins are all well and good, but an exhausted body fighting off little viruses can only do so much, and he’s held off by sheer force of will as long as he could in the interest of helping Belle.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Belle appears in front of Killian just as he turns to retreat to the dressing room. His first instinct upon noticing her presence is to tense up; Belle’s a far better woman than any of them deserve, and Killian fully expects some gentle chiding for his actions at the top of the second act. However, she simply lays a soft hand on his forearm, displaying a small smile.

“Thank you,” she tells him quietly, earnestly. Killian blushes, unable to stop his bashful reaction to her genuine words. “You didn’t need to do that - you probably shouldn’t have, frankly,” she admits, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes, “but thank you, all the same.”

“Anything for you, lass,” Killian replies, just as genuine in his words. “We’d all do anything for you, love, even fight the foulest demons. Truly, it’s the least I could do.” He gathers her into an affectionate hug, before pulling back to attempt to lighten the mood. “Now go reassure that young man of yours,” he teases. “Poor bastard’s been worried sick about you, though I suspect it’s nothing a kiss won’t solve.” He winks clumsily, managing to make Belle laugh. 

“Alright,” she agrees. Squeezing his hand one last time, she surprises him by reaching up to drop a kiss on his cheek before pulling away. “Thank you,” she whispers one last time, and before Killian can reply, even to wave her off, she’s gone.

Emma, on the other hand, is less grateful about the whole thing when Killian finally steps out of his dressing room to find her leaning against the opposite wall. 

“I thought we’d agreed to behave ourselves,” she comments dryly. “That’s my memory of it, at least.”

“My apologies, Swan,” he says, ducking his head in a facsimile of a bow to hide what she’d probably call a smirk if she could see it. “I just couldn’t help myself. I spotted a priceless opportunity and my chivalrous side just took over, I suppose.” He tries to play that up a bit with a charming smile in a burst of inspiration, hoping to maybe weasel his way out of her ire if he just chooses the right words.

It doesn’t work, Emma’s expression remaining stubbornly unimpressed. Ah, well; the words were too true anyways to truly pass off as merely a way to evade a scolding. “Uh huh. Just carried away in the moment, no prior thought, staring in  _ particular _ directions very determinedly without even realizing it.”

Killian hesitates. “Err… perhaps not,” he admits. “But it wasn’t some extensively planned thing either, like you’re trying to imply. Just took advantage of an opportunity, really. Word made it backstage of exactly which box Gold was sitting in, and you have to admit, the lyrics were a little perfect.”

“Just couldn’t resist.”

“Exactly.” Killian smiles apologetically, though he doesn’t particularly mean it. Standing up for Belle seems a noble thing to do, even against instructions, and he’s still inflated with pride from her thanks.

Emma holds the stern glare for a minute longer in the face of his sheepish smile before finally cracking, shaking her head in willing defeat as a smile teases across her face. “I suppose I can’t talk,” she confides. “Jefferson and front of house have been playing out their own revenge plot and I willingly ignored it.”

Killian lifts an eyebrow in curiosity, the sheepish smile stretching into a wide grin. “Oh? Miss ‘take the high road, be the better person’ turned a blind eye herself? I’m shocked, positively shocked.”

“Oh hush,” she scolds, though without any heat to the words.

“Come now,” he wheedles, “what did they do? Or, rather, what do you  _ not know _ they did?” He winks conspiratorially. Something about the gesture elicits a snort from Emma; he’ll have to get to the bottom of that later.

“That box the old bastard was seated in wasn’t just a random, convenient seat,” she confides. “ _ Maybe _ Jefferson purposefully sold him a ticket that was the last open seat amongst a bachelorette party.” Her eyes twinkle, allowing Killian a glimpse of her personality beneath the rule following.

“Oh really, now?” He likes the sound of where this is going.

“Mmhmm,” she nods. “Apparently at intermission they were just raving about Belle, talking about how ridiculous it was that she’d had such trouble in her career before this. That’s what one of the ushers was saying, at least.” She grins even wider. “Someone as illustrious as Richard Gold deserves only the best of service, you know - it’s the  _ least _ we could do to send someone up to hand-deliver drinks.”

Killian laughs at that. It’s devious, but under the guise of being helpful. Perfect. “And if that keeps him trapped amongst the tipsy, chattering bridal party…”

“All the better.”

“Oh, well done, Swan, that’s downright devious,” he teases. “You’d make a hell of a pirate.”

“Don’t spread it around,” she shoots back. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“I wouldn’t dare, Swan,” he replies. God, can she hear the admiration in his voice? Does it scare her? Does she like it? “I wouldn’t dare.”

———

It must have been pure determination that kept him healthy through the crucial performance, as by Saturday evening - not even 24 hours later - Killian is sick as a dog, miserable with a nasty cold. It’s nothing life-threatening, of course, but it leaves his throat scratchy and afflicted with a nasty cough, not to mention the congestion. It seems best that he takes a few days to recover, both to keep from losing his voice and to keep from infecting anyone else. After months of work, he could probably use a break anyways, and lord knows that Arthur, his understudy, is more than willing to fill in. Concerningly eager, in fact, though that’s a worry for another day (and possibly a suspicious illness).

He’d informed the powers that be the evening before after the performance that he’d need to take a sick day, having felt progressively groggier as the scenes moved forward, so Killian had anticipated a day all to himself, only interrupted by maybe a call from his brother. It’s with great surprise then that he hears a knock on his apartment door around seven that evening. He’s certainly not expecting someone, not in this condition. It could be building maintenance or something, Killian supposes, but he hopes not, considering he’s not in any mental state to process whatever they’ll have to tell him.

If Killian was surprised to hear someone at the door in the first place, he’s even more surprised - and even further,  _ confused  _ \- to look through the peephole to spot Emma and Henry Swan on his doorstep, the former shuffling in place and the latter peering eagerly up at the peephole like he knows he’s being observed.

The vain part of Killian winces at the picture he’s about to present, but there’s nothing to be done for it. Even if he had the energy to change out of his flannel pajama bottoms and thermal shirt, or even just neaten his hair a bit - and he’s sorely lacking that energy - he doesn’t have the time to accomplish it. In a last ditch effort towards presentability, he throws the blanket he’d brought to the door wrapped around his body back towards the couch before removing the chain to open the door and greet his visitors.

“Emma, Henry, it’s good to see you,” he rasps out in greeting. God, he sounds awful, like a chain smoking muppet.

“Oh, that sounds good,” Emma says with her characteristic bluntness, putting voice to his thoughts. It’s somehow less charming when directed in his direction, even if Killian’s cold-muddled brain knows that declaration to be objectively true.

“Thanks,” he croaks, hoping the sarcasm manages to shine through the sound. “Not that I’m unhappy to see you two, now or ever, but what are you doing here?”

“We brought you soup!” Henry pipes up, grinning in the vicinity of Killian’s elbow, far closer than he had noticed or anticipated. Instinctively, Killian takes a step back; he doesn’t want to risk accidentally giving the lad this bug.

“That’s… very kind of you, lad, both of you,” he replies. He still has so many questions, “how are you here?” and “why have you brought me soup when you didn’t need to?” topping the list.

Emma must read those questions in his eyes as she jumps to answer, at least the one. “We haven’t been stalking you or anything, I promise,” she assures. “I got your address from Elsa, who got it from your brother. And before you even ask, no, I don’t know how long they’ve been talking. Kinda weirds me out too,” she finished on a mumble, only just audible to Killian’s addled senses. Under other circumstances, he might have laughed but he’s still taking it in himself.

“ _ Anyways _ ,” Henry interrupts pointedly, “we go you soup from Granny’s and some cough drops and some allergy medicine. So you can feel better and come back to the show!”

“That’s very kind of you Henry,” Killian replies, gingerly accepting the grocery bag with the promised items, “but though I appreciate it, it wasn’t necessary.”

“Think of it as a thank you,” Emma replies firmly, as if she could dispel his confusion and doubts through will alone. “I figure you must have felt this coming on all week, so thank you for holding out for Belle. For all of us, really.”

“There’s no need to thank me for that,” Killian replies as gently as can through the raw throat and sinus pressure, willing her to believe it.

After a minute’s eye contact, Emma seemingly agrees, slipping back into the teasing and banter that usually define their interactions. “Well, maybe we’re ready for you to come back too. Arthur is… not the same as Darcy. A little too sulking and intense, which I didn’t realize was possible for the character.”

Killian tries to laugh, but ends up in another coughing fit. Emma seems conflicted, hands outreached as if to help or comfort him in some way, a very maternal gesture she’s probably used to using with Henry. Still, she holds back, aware both that Killian is sick and that her gesture may be less welcome. Regardless of whether he wants that comfort (and oh, he just might, if he’s brave enough to admit it), Killian waves her off with a calming hand as the coughing fit passes.

“I’m not surprised,” he finally manages to gasp out. “I swear, the man is out for my job.”

“You’re not wrong,” Emma mumbles back, causing Henry to break into a fit of the giggles. As his amusement dies down, they’re left in an awkward silence. Killian somehow senses that Emma doesn’t know what to do, torn between the motherly desire to help and the knowledge that she’s done all she can, at least with how their friendship currently stands. Though he doesn’t particularly want either Swan to go, Killian still moves to conclude the interaction.

“I’d invite you both inside, but…” he trails off pointedly.

“Oh! Yeah, we probably shouldn’t come hang out in the quarantine zone or whatever,” Emma completes, stepping back again from where she had moved closer over the course of their conversation. 

“Aye, I think that’s best. I don’t want to get either of you sick.”

“I hope you feel better soon, Killian,” Henry tells him earnestly, and even if Killian is feeling a bit miserable, he can’t help but smile. 

“Thank you, lad,” he replies, Henry flashing a last brilliant smile before wandering back towards the elevator. 

Emma reaches a hand out, finally grasping his forearm as if to hold his attention. “Jokes aside, take all the time you need, okay? Call one of us if you need anything.”

“Of course, Swan,” he agrees, nodding with a gentle smile. “Thank you both for taking care of me.”

“It’s the least I can do,” she replies. “After all, you’ve kind of done the same for me.” And with a final squeeze of his arm, she’s gone, pulling his door shut behind her.

It’s a small gesture, the bowl of soup, but it warms him inside in a way that has nothing to do with the still-uneaten broth. Killian’s feelings have always been unmistakable, but for the first time, with that caring gesture, he has hope that Emma might be coming to feel the same.

Killian grabs a spoon from the kitchen drawer, and despite being miserable moments before, returns to his couch to revel in the feeling of hope blossoming in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little more bonding for you guys, plus everyone bonding around Belle. Because she deserves it. And Mary Margaret was genuinely ready to cut a bitch. Next week is a lighter chapter before we dive into even MORE drama, but please trust me that it's drama that is going to bring our two idiots closer. I promise!
> 
> Thanks as always to my wonderful beta, @snidgetsafan. You're my favorite little grammar nerd.
> 
> Also posted on tumblr; I'm @shireness-says. Come give it some love there, I'm a desperate woman.
> 
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> Happy Thanksgiving to anyone who wants that, and I'll see you next week! More promptly, too.


	14. Chapter 13: Superboy and the Invisible Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "Next to Normal".
> 
> A lot of fun stuff this chapter! Namely, the gang on TV. It also very directly lays the groundwork for all the stuff to come in the next chapter where a LOT of shit happens. It's gonna be great. Casual reminder that I don't know jack about television production. 
> 
> Also, as it turns out, I lied a little bit, because I added a chapter. The chapter total will now be twenty. You guys don't mind too much, right?
> 
> Enjoy!

It feels like they’re all flying on a high in the weeks following Gold’s performance (as Killian thinks of it in his head), buoyed by the kind of new confidence that’s only forged in fire. Killian is gleefully welcomed back after his handful of sick days, though it seems their ever increasing ticket sales survived even Arthur’s over-the-top interpretation of Darcy, thank goodness. He even hears that TMZ cornered that old bastard Gold into admitting that he enjoyed the show - or, if Killian remembers correctly, “found the acting to be better than anticipated”.

(Where that slimy prick is concerned, Killian and the rest are willing to take quasi-compliments as they come.)

Without a certain producer’s presence hanging over her head, Belle has returned to her serene, unflappable self, Killian is pleased to see. He’s even more pleased to witness the easy affection between his costar and her beau. They’re a quiet kind of couple, much less sickening in their together-ness than Mary Margaret and David - who at this point really ought to come up with an official couple name to save everyone time - but they both smile more around each other. That’s more than enough of an indicator for Killian, and he’s thrilled to see his friend return once again to a more joyous state after somewhat retreating into herself during that time of emotional stress.

Just when Killian thinks they must have peaked, that this high they’re on can’t possibly get any better, the news comes in:

They’ve been asked to perform on the late night show  _ The Sign Off _ , with an interview with host Archie Hopper to follow for himself and Belle.

“It’s so exciting!” Belle gushes, a rare display of outright exuberance from his brunette partner in crime. “Not a lot of productions get this chance, you know. And then to sit down for a guest appearance afterwards! Oh, I’m so thrilled.”

Killian smiles and agrees with Belle in the moment, but inside he’s much less excited about the whole thing than she is. The performance, fine; that’s part and parcel of his job, just another day in the office (so to speak). The interview though… that’s a whole other ballgame. It’s that ‘first day of school, will the other kids like me’ feeling all over again. It’s one thing, performing in character on television; it’s quite another, being asked to appear as yourself. Killian’s not sure he’s up for it, but he’ll have to muddle through somehow. Perhaps Liam has some advice that’s useful.

Unfortunately, as Killian finds out when he calls that evening, his older brother isn’t able to assist for once, a revelation that leaves Killian just as shocked and stressed as the prospect of this interview does. Maybe it’s just Killian’s own hero-worship talking, but Liam’s supposed to be able to fix  _ everything _ . 

“It’s just another part of the job, Kil,” his brother tells him, but that’s decidedly not helpful. Killian  _ knows _ this is part of his job; it’s not like he’s being asked to appear as a guest because he personally is fascinating. What he really needs is a tactic for dealing with part of his job, one it seem that Liam, with all of his natural confidence, can’t provide for once.

He’ll figure it out. He has to. In the meantime, he’ll just keep repeating those words to himself:  _ It’s just part of the job. Just part of the job. _

———

Emma had expected the  _ Sign Off _ set to feel foreign, but she’s shocked by how much that  _ isn’t _ the case. True, there are some elements she isn’t quite used to - namely, the various cameras positioned around the stage - but at the end of the day, they’re standing not in a studio, but in a converted theater, and if there’s one place Emma knows the lay of the land, it’s in a theater. 

Watching the show’s stage manager is interesting, Emma will admit. There’s elements she recognizes - ensuring props (in this case, the standard mugs of water and a couple of items hidden under the host’s desk) are in place, that everyone is keeping to a schedule and in their proper places at the proper times - but it somehow seems less frenetic than a live theater show. It helps that any lighting cues and sound cues are handled by the director, leaving this stage manager - Emma’s embarrassed to admit she’s completely forgotten the woman’s name - without one of the major stressors plaguing Emma in her own position.

_ It must be nice _ , Emma muses idly, somewhat intrigued and tempted by this more low-key display of what her job  _ could _ entail in a different sector of the industry. Weekends off, lower stress levels due to the filmed nature of the show instead of live… it’s all very tempting.

At the same time, watching the less frenetic pace of her televised counterpart’s job, Emma knows the stakes are exactly what she loves. Ever night is its own kind of challenge where anything might happen, good or bad. Sure, it’s stressful having to fix and conceal things as they happen, knowing that there’s no chance of a re-do of this particular night, but those heightened stakes are exactly what make it  _ interesting _ and some days even (dare she say it)  _ fun. _ No two days, no two performances are ever the same, and it thrills Emma, having to problem solve on the fly. While being in a television job might be more steady, the fact that they can reset if necessary makes it more dull, and Emma knows she could never do it long-term.

With  _ Sign Off _ ’s staff in charge of tech, there’s not much for Emma to do here, but the cast are still her people, so it’s still important that she be present, even just to make sure that everyone has what they need and can communicate with the show’s staff if need be. Not a bad reason to be called to work on a dark Monday, all things considered. It doesn’t hurt either that Henry is thrilled that his mom’s show is going to be on TV, though he’s crushed that he won’t be allowed backstage. Emma’s been strictly instructed to pay attention to  _ everything  _ so she can recount it in full detail later.

It’s getting close - 15 minutes by Emma’s watch - so she goes to make a final sweep of the dressing rooms to make sure there’s nothing that needs addressing or minor crises to avert. Rarely are there actual catastrophes in play, but actors always seem to have a way of turning everything into the worst case scenario, and it’s best to head those kind of overreactions off before they can explode.

Thankfully, everyone seems too excited to really focus on any of the minor things that would normally indicate the end of life as they know it, much to Emma’s relief. Her last stop is the dressing room David and Killian are sharing; they so rarely have any concerns or issues that need addressing that she tends to save them for last, her two easy actors. Bless them for that. Today, before she can raise a hand to knock at the door, David’s opening it from the other side to exit.

“Oh good, you’re here,” he comments, immediately setting Emma on edge. Those words rarely indicate anything good. “He’s been pacing in there for a while, muttering to himself.”

Oh. Great.

“Thanks,” she mutters as David walks away, probably off to find Mary Margaret and mess up their makeup (so to speak). Honestly, when it comes to that relationship, Emma doesn’t really want to know. Taking a deep breath to prepare herself, she steps through the doorway only to be faced with exactly what David promised: Killian Jones, talking to himself under his breath as he shuffles back and forth in front of the mirror.

“Please tell me you’re not about to have another breakdown,” she groans. She shouldn’t; it isn’t kind, it isn’t a helpful thing to say, and will probably just make him feel bad if that’s the case, but they really don’t have time for that. She’ll take the time to feel bad later.

Killian jerks his head up at her words, eyebrows contorted into an expression of what she thinks is confusion. “What?” he asks, clearly not comprehending, before it clicks. “Oh, no no no, not at all, love. We’ve run the Netherfield scene a thousand times now, I think I could do it in my sleep.”

“What’s all…  _ this _ , then?” she demands, gesturing with a twirl of her hand in his direction.

Killian shrugs, mouth twisting into a sheepish smile. “Just working off some energy, mostly,” he admits. “Maybe a little bit of excess nerves - again, not about the performance, mind you,” he assures, “but about the interview.”

That doesn’t quite compute. The interview should be the least of his worries, but here he is, fretting about it - no matter how much he tries to assure her. Emma is starting to realize that Killian Jones is a bit of a nervous wreck by nature. “What about the interview? You go out there, answer a few questions, banter a bit with Belle and the host. I know you can do the banter part just fine,” she adds dryly, just to get him to smile a little more. “C’mon, what’s the issue? You were on TV before for the parade, and that went fine. Better than fine, really. Great.”

“Yes, but I didn’t have to be myself on TV for the parade,” he explains. “I was able to hide behind the character for that. It’s a little nerve wracking, knowing I’ll have to go out and be myself, and hope people still like what they see.”

_ Does he hear himself? _ Emma can’t help but wonder. She doesn’t mean to minimize his anxiety, but honestly, his worry is a little ridiculous. Please. He’s one of the most likable people she knows, even if he does get a little saucy sometimes. “That’s ridiculous,” she tells him ultimately unable to help herself. “Look, you’re like, ridiculously charming. And you’ve already met the host, right?” Killian nods, the tension in his shoulders relaxing marginally. “Right, so, he was super nice. You’re just going to be having another conversation, there will just be a few more people listening in than usual. Just look at Belle or the host if you’re getting nervous, ok? Pretend for a bit that there’s not an audience. But honestly, no offense, but I don’t think there’s anything to that worry. People like you.  _ Everyone _ likes you. This isn’t going to be any different.”

“Ok,” he agrees, whooshing out a great breath like he’s trying to expel his fear with it. “Ok. It’s going to be fine, aye? It’s going to be great. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” she parrots back. “I’ll be in the wings the whole time too, if that helps. Even if you can’t see me. Now, you ready to do this? You gonna be okay?” In full honesty, she needs him to be okay; she still wants to do a final check with the stage manager before collecting any stragglers, and she needs to go do that  _ now _ .

“Aye,” he smiles. “Thanks, Swan. I promise, one day you won’t have to pull me back together like this,” he jokes. 

“It’s really not a problem,” Emma smiles back, heading for the door. “Go, break a leg, I’ll catch you between segments.”

He puzzles her, she decides as she turns away from a last glimpse of his face set into a soft smile. With her, Killian is this suave, flirtatious guy, but it seems that in front of others he’s always a small step away from pure anxiety and panicking about how others will react to him putting himself out there. The dichotomy would almost be amusing, if Emma wasn’t so worried about him. 

He’ll be great; she knows that much, with a surety usually only reserved for her professional instincts. Now Emma’s just got to hope that somehow, some way, Killian will come to believe the same.

———

The performance is absolutely fine, but Killian already knew that would be the case. Better than fine, really - it’s great, excellent, fantastic. All those other adjectives that people use to express that their number is an unmitigated success. It was never this part that was the issue, however; by this point, he can do the choreography in his sleep. It’s what’s still to come that leaves him jittery and nervous. Emma had helped earlier, but the closer and closer it gets to the dreaded moment, the harder it is to remember her words.

Luckily, she’s there waiting in the wings when Killian emerges from his dressing room again, this time in a sharp suit.

“Still hanging in there?” she asks as he approaches. Killian knows Swan won’t judge him if he gives her the truthful answer, but he still hates to admit that he’s barely holding it together. Somehow it feels like  _ disappointment _ to admit that.

“Not really,” he finally replies with a grimace when her concerned look becomes too much to withstand. “I’m starting to think I’m not cut out for this,” Killian admits, giving voice to the fear he’s been afraid to face all week. If this is part of the job, like Liam’s said, what does it mean if he can’t handle this part of it? Sure, everyone likes him as Darcy, but he’s  _ terrified _ they won’t like him as Just Killian. Killian is a grown-ass adult desperate for others to like him (a fear he’s sure any decent therapist would have a field day with - maybe he should look into making an appointment, if he can make it through tonight in one piece) and he’s worried not only that they won’t, but that it’ll sound the death knell for this nice little acting interlude he’s been on. Even if all that does sound absolutely absurd as he thinks it - it’s still there.

Miraculously, Emma seems to sense that without him uttering a single word - must read it in his eyes or some such other mystical tactic (Killian doesn’t pretend to understand it). The concerned wrinkle in her brow smooths as she steps forward to tug lightly on the front of his jacket, gently straightening it out. Under other circumstances, he might almost find it flirtatious - might make a quip about whether she’s thinking about tugging him down for a kiss - but in his worried state, the gesture is somehow calming, slightly maternal. She’s looking out for him in the most immediate way she can.

“Just focus on Belle and Archie, okay?” she instructs him softly. “It’s just another conversation. And if it helps,” she adds, “then you should know that we’re all already so pleased with what you’ve accomplished. And being a great Darcy is  _ enough _ . Even if you bomb this - which you won’t but even if it  _ does _ happen, it’s not going to ruin anything. Plus, even if I’m  _ certain _ you’ll be your usual suave self as soon as you get out there, Belle’s there too, and she’s more than charming enough for both of you if need be. It will be  _ fine _ .”

“You seem awfully sure of that, Swan,” Killian replies, his hand somehow migrating up to rest over hers to anchor himself in the moment. There’s a vague glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, but he’s too focused on Emma to pay much heed to it. 

“I know you don’t have a lot of faith in yourself, Killian, but I’ve got faith in your abilities. And it seems like you’ve got a lot of faith in me,” she points out, Killian nodding his agreement. “Well then, you’ve just got to have faith in my faith. Transitive property or… something.” 

That earns a quirk of Killian’s eyebrow. It’s an odd little detail to add in, especially when she seems so uncertain about it.

“Look, it was in Henry’s math homework, I didn’t memorize the worksheet or anything,” she excuses, lightening the mood and making Killian laugh. Unfortunately, the lightened mood also sees Emma stepping away from their close proximity, hand leaving the spot on his chest that was quickly becoming  _ hers _ . Killian tries not to mourn the loss too acutely.

“That much is evident,” he teases right back.

“Hey now,” she warns, but laughter still teases at the edge of her voice, keeping the guilt Killian might otherwise feel at bay.

“I’m just saying,” he volleys back, following Swan’s path as she starts to walk backwards away from him. “For all your faith in me, you seem awfully unsure about basic algebraic principles.”

“Yeah, well how often do you use those ‘basic algebraic principles’ in  _ your _ day to day, smartass?” she shoots back, making sure to exaggerate the air quotes around his own words.

“Alright, alright, you have a point there, love,” he concedes.

“Yeah, I thought so,” she replies smugly, that lovely smile of hers stretching her mouth. There’s a special kind of joy created in Killian’s soul at the sight of Emma’s smile; a desire to create that smile is 100% the reason he teases her like this. As long as it keeps working, he sees no reason to quit that effort.

He’s so distracted by that smile that he doesn’t notice that Swan’s surreptitiously led him backstage, only steps away from the curtain he’ll emerge from for his interview. Tricky lass; her bantering was too distracting for him to remember his panic, and now they’re only minutes away from the fateful moment. Belle is already waiting with the show’s stage manager, and he can hear Archie trying to wrap things up onstage; they’re probably just waiting on him. 

Killian chuckles, shaking a teasing finger at Emma. “Oh, I see what you did there. Clever lass.”

She shrugs, but Killian can see the twinkle in her eye that tells him she very much did this on purpose. Saucy thing. “I did what I had to.”

“Sure you did.”

As Emma shakes with suppressed laughter, Killian is pulled away for final preparations. Suddenly, the moment is looming, but he can’t bring himself to worry as much as he had before with Emma’s chuckles still ringing in his mind. Quickly, he’s fitted with a lapel mic again and guided to a mark behind the curtain, and before he knows it, he’s offering an arm to Belle and walking out to the sound of applause and cheers, barely remembering to wave to the crowd and shake Archie’s hand in the midst of so much stimulation.

Of course, once Killian sits down on the surprisingly comfortable couch, he feels a little ridiculous for ever worrying so much. Archie Hopper is the friendliest, most agreeable man on earth - including David Nolan, believe it or not - and even though he’s technically sitting in the middle of an interview, it really  _ does _ just feel like a continuation of their conversation before the show began. Without the stiff prodded questions Killian was expecting, it’s easier to relax, and Archie seems willing to just let the conversation go where it goes.

They’re just coming off an anecdote about backstage shenanigans - a funny story about Mary Margaret and David and how they now have a makeout jar to contribute money to after the whole cast kept catching them in corners - when the conversation takes a turn Killian didn’t anticipate in the least.

“Speaking of off-stage relationships,” Archie segues, “are the two of you acquainted with what the kids call ‘shipping’?”

“I assume you’re not talking about the postal service,” Killian jokes back. He’s absolutely clueless about this ‘shipping’ in truth, and judging by Belle’s face she’s lost as well. Regardless, he’s sure they’re about to find out.

“Well, it’s a phenomenon in which people - oftentimes the internet, if you can imagine such a thing” he clarifies with mock surprise, receiving laughs from the audience in payment - “decide that they think two individuals - or more, we’re not judging! - should be together in a relationship. Usually it’s with fictional characters, but  _ sometimes, _ ” Archie emphasizes pointedly, “they turn their minds towards real people - celebrities and the like.”

“Oh no, I’ve got a terrible feeling of where this is going,” Belle laughs. Killian’s got an inkling of the same, and he’s not sure he likes it.

“Oh yes,” Archies teases right back. “It seems that the wonderful people of the internet have decided you and Killian would be a lovely couple. To use the terminology, they ‘ship’ you.”

Killian can feel his face flush at the words, the cheers and wolf whistles from the audience not helping the matter. It seems that a few of these… shipping people may be in the audience tonight.

“So I guess the question I’m getting at is: do the shippers have any hope?” Archie concludes, much to Killian’s mortification.

“Er… well, I think the relationship is only going to stay onstage, just between the characters, you know,” he manages to stutter out. His face must resemble a tomato by this point with how much blood has gone straight to his cheeks and ears. Oh, this isn’t helping the matter  _ at all _ . “I love working with Belle, and she’s a wonderful friend, but, uh… well, there’s not really desire on either of our part to take it any further than that.”

“Killian’s more interested in stage managers anyways,” Belle teases. Killian’s heart stops cold for a second in shock and panic; if he thought things were bad and embarrassing before, he was clearly wrong, because this is worse. Much worse. So very, very much worse.

Archie’s interest is clearly piqued, the man’s face all smiles and raised eyebrows. Great. “Is that so? Must be a remarkable woman.”

This is worse than Liam’s interrogation by a mile. Liam’s teasing at least wasn’t televised. Now his cherry-red face can be literally seen from space, as long as the astronauts have a screen. Excellent. A true highlight of his existence.

“We’re all very lucky to have an exceptional stage manager working with us, Emma Swan,” he deflects. “A very talented, and very  _ professional _ woman that any production would be fortunate to have on its staff.”

Thankfully, Belle must see his face and realize what a mess she’s dropped on him, as she chimes in to both support his statement and divert the conversation. “He’s right, the whole crew is really exceptional, truly,” she offers. With a small smile - an almost apologetic one, if Killian’s not mistaken - she offers up her own conversational sacrifice. “I will say, I  _ am _ biased though,” she smiles to the audience. “I  _ did _ just recently start dating our deck captain.”

There’s more whoops and catcalls from the audience as the attention blessedly turns away from Killian and towards his costar. He’s sure he’s never felt more relieved in his life.

“Ah, so the truth comes out!” Archie laughs. “You and Killian aren’t dating because you’re already taken,” he winks.

“Oh, yes, exactly,” Belle agrees, mock-seriously. “Well, that and the fact that I’m almost certain we’d kill each other,” she adds, nudging Killian in the side conspiratorially. 

“She’s not wrong,” he grins back, trying to convey his thanks in the gesture. Killian thinks she understands.

The last few minutes of the interview pass in a blur. Killian knows he answered more questions, smiled and schmoozed some more, but he has almost no memory of it, still too focused on just trying to process everything that’s happened in the last several minutes. God, he owes Emma a massive apology. Here he is, promising to be friends and nothing more, and her name has still been dragged into the romantic crosshairs. He won’t be able to apologize enough for that.

It’s with great relief that they’re finally allowed to leave the stage after the interview concludes. Killian shakes Archie’s hand a final time - the man really  _ is _ the single most friendly human being Killian has ever encountered - and waves to the audience before he’s able to slip back behind the curtain again. Emma is nowhere in sight, a fact that makes Killian’s stomach drop in dread. It doesn’t bode well for her reaction to the events of the past few minutes. Before he can go searching for her, Belle stops him with a distressed look on her face.

“Killian, I’m  _ so  _ sorry,” she tells him emphatically. “I wasn’t thinking, I just opened my mouth and —”

“Belle, it’s fine,” he placates. It’s not entirely fine in actuality, but he doesn’t like seeing Belle distressed and it’s an easy enough thing to say. “I know you didn’t mean it maliciously. Is Scarlet going to be fine with you basically announcing your relationship to the whole world?” he checks. “I hope you didn’t feel like you had to do that so we’d be even or some such nonsense.”

“Oh no, no,” his friend reassures. “I know that. And trust me, Will will be fine with it. He’s been ready to practically sing it from the rooftops. Somehow, I don’t think this was  _ exactly _ what he pictured,” she comments dryly, “but trust me, he won’t have any objection to it. Though I should probably call and give him a little heads up of what’s happened.”

“By all means, please, go,” Killian urges. “Really, I’m perfectly alright. It’s fine. Please don’t worry.”

“Are you sure? I just feel so bad,” Belle frets, passing her phone from hand to hand. 

“Yes, absolutely. Go ring your gentleman caller,” he teases, waggling his eyebrows on the silly title he makes up just to see the pretty brunette’s smile. “I ought to go make sure Emma is alright anyways.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Belle concedes. “Well, good luck. Please, let me know if I should buy her a bottle of wine or something.”

“I will,” he placates, finally managing to shoo off his costar before heading to find his own love interest, his Swan.

———

Emma’s sweeping the chorus dressing rooms for loose costume pieces and props, making sure everything is ready to be transported back to their own theater when Killian finds her, his eyes filled with a mix of guilt and panic.

“Swan, I’m  _ so _ sorry for that, truly, I had no idea that was coming, and I promise you, I would have shut it down if I had,” he tells her, profusely apologetic and practically tripping over himself to tell her that.

“It’s fine,” she replies, not really diverting her attention from her search. Actors always manage to leave things in the stupidest places in her experience.

Killian’s not letting it go, however. “Really, Swan, I feel terrible about it. I can’t tell you enough how sorry I am, don’t have proper words to express — ”

“Seriously, Killian, it’s fine,” she interrupts. “I’m not stressing about it or holding it against you. Not even mad. You’re good.”

And the thing is, it  _ is _ fine. Maybe it’s not the ideal outcome, but it’s nothing that he needs to work himself into a tizzy or whatever over. He wasn’t the one to bring it up, and he reacted as well as could have been asked for under the circumstances. Hell, the things he had to say were actually pretty complimentary. As a stage manager, Emma is used to lurking in the shadows - both literally and figuratively - but if she’s about to be thrust into the spotlight unexpectedly, she’s happy it’s for a positive reason. She’ll take what she can get, honestly - usually, when stage managers are noticed or talked about, it’s because they fucked something up. She’ll take this instead any day.

Killian’s relief at her words is visible, his shoulders sagging and brow relaxing as her lack of concern about the matter finally sinks in. “Thank you,” he exhales. “Your name shouldn’t have been dragged into that mess in the first place. ‘Shipping’ or whatnot. Especially since we’re just friends.”

Emma’s heart lurches at that. Sure, it’s exactly what they agreed to in the fallout of when he asked her out back in October, but that was back then. Back before Emma… well, Emma’s still a little scared of saying  _ what _ she is, or what she has, but it’s an awful lot like feelings - feelings that make it hurt to hear the words “just friends”.

_ Maybe he’s not interested anymore _ , a mean little voice in her head whispers, a little voice that’s still eighteen years old and all alone.  _ He seemed awful quick to distance himself from Belle and Archie’s comments - almost embarrassed by the suggestion that there was something going on between the two of you.  _ It’s an insistent little voice, and persuasive too. Emma kinda hates it - which is stupid, since it’s a figment of her own imagination. God, she probably needs therapy.  _ He just said that because he’s respecting my boundaries, _ she reminds the voice.  _ You’re the one who told him no, you can’t be mad at him for sticking to that. _

“Yep, just friends,” she agrees, but it’s strained, probably to the point even Killian can hear it.

Sure enough, his brow furrows again, this time in concern. “Are you sure you’re alright, love?” he asks. “If not, I can… well, I don’t know. Talk to someone, I guess. Throw a fit and demand that the segment be cut from the show,” he offers with desperation tinging his voice.

That snaps Emma back out of her funk immediately. Her own weird hang-ups shouldn’t make him feel any worse than he already does; that would be totally uncalled for. Practically cruel. He didn’t ask for all this and feels terrible; that’s more than enough for the man to deal with.

“Yeah, of course I am,” she tells him, making sure to purposefully pitch her voice to be light and breezy. If Killian’s face is anything to go by, it doesn’t work very well. “I just spotted a stocking someone left lying around, sorry to get distracted,” Emma quickly lies. “But yeah, no, really, it’s fine. I mean, it’s not like you were saying mean things about me or something,” she jokes. 

“Yes, but — ”

“I’m serious, Killian. I’m not mad or irritated or anything else. Honestly, the only thing I’m annoyed about here is that you keep insisting I’m more bothered by the whole thing than I actually am.”

That seems to sink in a bit more, Killian nodding thoughtfully before offering what seems to be a final token protest. “Well, if you’re sure…”

“ _ Yes _ , Jones!” Emma all but groans. It’s probably (definitely) unprofessional, but she rolls her eyes, unable to suppress the instinctive reaction any longer. “Now get out of here before you bother me any more,” she commands, though her smile almost certainly tempers it. Killian raises his hands in supplication as he backs out the door, shooting her a final relieved smile before he turns on his heel and disappears into the hallway.

Emma shakes her head at Killian’s antics and misplaced worry as she turns back to the task at hand, spotting a stocking underneath a chair as if her lie conjured it there.

_ He’s just looking out for me _ she reminds the pesky voice in her head. Hopefully if she says it enough it’ll drown out the doubts.

———

Liam calls nearly as soon as the segment airs. 

“Was Belle aware of the whole ‘just friends’ thing you were so insistent about?” he teases.

“Shut up,” Killian grumbles back, causing his brother to burst into a fit of laughter.

“Whatever you say, little brother,” Liam chuckles. “Whatever you say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Belle's little joke won't come back to haunt them at all... as it turns out, Emma's reaction was the least of Killian's worries. I'm excited to share next week's chapter with you guys!
> 
> Thanks to my fantastic beta, @snidgetsafan. Contact her for a full recounting of proposed celeb couple nicknames - suggestion for David and Mary Margaret included Davaret, Nochard, and Toothache. I think the last is most accurate.
> 
> Also posted on tumblr - I'm @shireness-says. Come say hi.
> 
> If you liked this, please leave kudos, comments, or feedback. I love hearing from you guys!
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I'll see you next week!


	15. Chapter 14: What Did I Ever See In Him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is - the fallout from last week! Rest assured, our favorite pair is fine, and this will ultimately move things forward for them.
> 
> Chapter title taken from "Bye Bye Birdie".
> 
> Enjoy!

It’s that fucking principle again - that everything falls apart just when things are going great. It’s official; Emma’s commissioning a study. Or maybe it’s just an inevitability in a more mundane way, that things can only go up or down and the downs will always be more noticeable. Whatever the case, Emma just hopes it doesn’t come in threes.

This crash feels so much harsher too because it’s much more personal, and it comes at the worst possible moment. The week had started with their  _ Sign-Off _ performance, of course, and Emma had been flying high on Henry’s residual excitement over their appearance in the days immediately following. If she had hoped that her kid would let the Killian debacle slide, she’s sadly disappointed. Clearly, he’s spent too much time around Ruby and Mary Margaret growing up, as he’s determined to both interrogate and tease Emma about what this means for her love life. Smart alec.

“He’s got a cruuuush on you,” Henry singsongs, laughing uproariously as Emma’s cheeks flush. “Oh! Does that mean you do too?”

“It does not!” Emma insists, even as her blush insists otherwise. Traitor. 

“Uh huh,” Henry nods, grinning deviously. Some kid she’s got. 

(The best kid,  _ always _ the best kid, even when he’s teasing her like this.)

“Killian is my colleague and my friend and a complete professional,” Emma lists patiently. Her tone is probably veering more towards long-suffering than patient, if she’s being honest, but it’s warranted in her opinion. “Which is, you know,  _ why he said that in the interview _ .”

“Sure,” Henry replies, clearly unimpressed. Emma’s going to need to have words with Ruby, because Henry  _ definitely  _ did not get that side-eye from her. “Whatever you say, Mom.”

(The sass, though - he definitely got  _ that  _ from her.)

Know-it-all children aside, Emma’s having a good week - good weather, good mood,  _ great _ shows… it seems that things are flying along, never better, practically unsinkable. Until Thursday, that is.

Thursday is the day everything goes to hell.

Ashley, the young woman who plays Kitty in their production, calls out sick, requiring an early call time for everyone to run through the show with the understudy and make sure she’s comfortable with the choreography and her handful of lines, or at least comfortable enough with them to make it through a performance. Not the way Emma wants to start her day, but it doesn’t necessarily spell disaster. They can work with that.

What’s worse, though, is getting to the theater to discover that a power surge the evening before has tripped several breakers and screwed with their lights, necessitating changing bulbs and a full check of the theater’s electrical systems. The headset system they’ve got to work with is better than most Emma’s dealt with in her time, but it’s still prone to more interference than Emma would prefer, and a short in their system won’t do Emma and Kristoff any favors. The whole thing is going to be a major stressor in the crew’s afternoon, but there’s no way around it. 

Dealing with both of those situations is enough - more than enough, really, if Emma’s being honest. 

However, apparently some higher power has it out for Emma, because the joy doesn’t stop there. Instead, that same Thursday, three days after the show’s  _ Sign-Off _ appearance, Neal shows up in town - at Emma’s theater, no less! - because  _ of mother-fucking course he does. _

Honestly, she has no idea how Neal got into the theater in the first place - you’d think someone would have kicked him out between the stage door and the stage. Then again, her ex has always had a way of bluffing his way into places - fake it ‘til you make it and all that. He acts like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and for whatever reason, people believe him. 

Emma doesn’t even notice him sauntering around the stage at first, too busy discussing what replacements they’ll need to order with Robin in the booth to pay attention to what’s going on below and leaving Kristoff to be the unfortunate messenger. The unwitting harbinger of doom, if you will.

“There’s some guy asking for you?” her usually even-keeled sound tech cuts in when a break in the conversation allows, voice betraying an uncharacteristic irritation. “Made it sound like you’d know him. I don’t know, he wasn’t exactly  _ forthcoming _ .” If Emma didn’t know better, she’d almost say there was a hint of disdain in Kristoff’s tone, but that’s silly. Kristoff gets along with everyone, mostly by barely talking to anyone. He’s got that Nordic, Midwestern implacability too where Emma can never tell what he’s thinking, and especially can never tell when he’s flustered.

It’s all explained, though, when she looks through the window to see her ex impatiently checking his phone. He’s not tapping his foot yet but Emma can sense the urge from this distance. Typical - Neal always seems to believe that his time is more valuable than everyone else’s.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” she curses loudly. “It’s my ex. Henry’s dad,” she elaborates when Robin lifts a curious eyebrow at her outburst. “Fuck. Fuck fuck  _ fuck _ .” Blood pressure no doubt shooting through the roof, she turns on her heel and storms out of the booth to confront Neal and find out why the hell he’s here.

By the time she makes it down to the orchestra level, Neal’s officially progressed to foot-tapping stage, glancing around impatiently. Like he’s the one being inconvenienced here.

“What do you want, Neal?” she demands as soon as she gets close enough. There’s a small amount of pleasure to be taken in watching Neal jerk his head up in response and then down again rapidly to meet Emma’s eyes where she stands in the audience, knowing that it will likely result in a nasty knot in his neck from all the drastic movements. Only a small amount, though.

“Well hello to you too, Ems,” he replies easily, like all of this is some light-hearted social call instead of him barging into her place of employment.

“I’m not kidding around, Neal. What the hell are you doing here?” She doesn’t have time for this, but if she has to deal with it, she’s cutting straight to the point and skipping past the useless pleasantries. 

“Well I was in town for a meeting and thought I’d drop by,” he replies.

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?” Neal reacts, playing up his faux offense. It’s all an act, Emma knows; she doesn’t even need a superpower to see that.

“Bullshit. You have never once in your life just ‘dropped by’, and you think theatre is a frivolous waste of time.”

“Can’t a man come see his son, maybe take him to dinner?” he tries instead, changing tactics.

“You certainly can, but it’s 3pm, Neal. Henry won’t be by after school for another hour. And, again, you have never ‘dropped by’ for a surprise visit just because you were in town for some meeting. In fact, you usually have to cancel on dinner with Henry when your meetings run over.”

“Oh c’mon Ems, that’s not fair,” Neal complains, but who the fuck cares what he has to say on the subject? Emma is about to tell him as such when Scarlet interrupts with better timing than she would have credited him with, though his tone is too annoyed to actually write off the interruption as being for her benefit.

“Oi, not that this isn’t fascinating, but would you clear the bleedin’ stage? I’ve been trying to bring this light bar in for the past five minutes but  _ some people _ ,” he glares pointedly at Neal, “won’t get out of the way.”

The nuisance himself looks like he’s about to bite back, but Emma cuts in before he gets the chance. “You gotta move, Neal, I don’t care where. Go hang out backstage or in the house or something. I’ve gotta take care of some stuff, I can’t keep an eye on you.” If she’s secretly hoping he gets whacked in the head with the light bar, well, that’s her business, and entirely understandable to boot.

“We need to talk, Emma,” he insists, apparently finally cutting to his point.

“Yeah, well, I need to do my job. You showed up at a bad time, and I’ve got people waiting on me. We’ll talk later.” She hopes her voice is firm enough - ideally, the one she uses to keep everyone in line when everything is going to shit - but ultimately, it doesn’t much matter as she whirls around and stalks back to the booth.

She’s got a terrible feeling she knows exactly what this is about. It seems like an awfully big coincidence that Neal just  _ happens _ to unexpectedly show up at her theater, a place he’s never showed interest in, only a couple days after a male coworker said nice things about her on national television. Whatever the case, she  _ so  _ doesn’t have time to deal with it now.

Neal is just going to have to wait.

———

Word travels fast throughout the ranks, and the shocking news that their beloved stage manager’s ex-boyfriend and father to Henry has unexpectedly showed up on their stage is no exception. Killian hears it from Belle, who was told by Scarlet, who relates as much of the situation as he knows with plenty of added commentary about how the man’s a nuisance and possibly an imbecile and  _ honestly _ , who the bloody hell doesn’t hear a man hollering about a heavy bleedin’ light bar about to be flown in? Fuckin’ idiots, that’s who, if you ask a very irritated Will Scarlet. And then somewhere along the line David Nolan catches wind of it and tells Mary Margaret, and when you tell Mary Margaret anything, suddenly the entire cast knows. It’s just a fact of their little cohort.

Now, Killian considers himself to be an open minded man, a tolerant man, a man who does not make decisions about people before he knows them. Liam raised him to be kind and polite and to listen to people and not make premature judgements, and usually, Killian does his best to live up to that example.

But, God help him, he Does Not Like Emma’s ex.

(Well, part of that might have been related to the holiday party incident and not their encounter today, but his point still stands)

He’s prepared to swear that even were Neal not the former lover of the woman he’s slowly becoming devoted to, he still wouldn’t like the man. There’s something about the other’s man attitude – that he can do what he pleases, and everyone else’s opinion be damned. Killian  _ hates _ it.

Currently, “whatever he pleases” is wandering around backstage semi-aimlessly, sticking his nose into corners and getting underfoot and generally driving everyone slowly mad.

“Can I help you, mate?” Killian asks in a perfectly civil tone - or at least what  _ he _ thinks is a perfectly civil tone - when he runs down to grab a prop only to find the other man peeking into thankfully empty dressing rooms.

“Nope, just looking around,” the ex had replied about as absently as humanly possible, not bothering to even make more than glancing eye contact.

Alright then.

The only marginally redeeming factor of that man is how purely delighted Henry is to see him when the lad comes by after school. Killian may be many things - a very judgemental and petty man at the moment, for one - but he’s not a monster, and he’s willing to put up with a lot if it makes that wonderful boy happy. Still. Doesn’t mean he has to become best friends with the man, or even be happy about his presence. In fact, Killian thinks he’ll keep an eye out from a short distance, just to make sure the lad stays happy; he doesn’t quite trust the other man’s motives here, even if he is Henry’s father.

“Dad!” Henry exclaims as soon as he spots the man in question, a wide and brilliant smile stretching his cheeks as his eyes visibly light up. “I didn’t know you were gonna be here!” Just as quickly though, his features shift to confusion. “I didn’t miss a call, did I?”

“Oh no, of course not, buddy,” Neal reassures. “I just thought I’d surprise you.”

Though this appearance could certainly be described as a surprise  _ very _ easily, Killian still thinks that’s not the whole story. Henry is less fazed though, or at least willing to take the excuse at face value in his excitement over his dad’s presence.

“You’ve got to come meet everyone!” Henry exclaims, practically bouncing on his feet as he tugs Neal over towards Killian. 

_ Lord help me _ , Killian can’t help but think,  _ this will be fun _ . If the other man’s face is anything to go by, he seems to be thinking the same thing.

“Killian!” Henry calls, managing to pull an almost genuine smile out of him. “You’ll never guess who’s here! This is my dad!”

“Aye, we met briefly earlier,” Killian replies, thinking of their dressing room encounter (if it can even really be called that). In the name of civility, he sticks a hand out to shake. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr…?” Technically, he already knows the other man’s name, but it feels rude to admit that the whole production knows who he is through the gossip train.

“Cassidy. Neal Cassidy,” he supplies with a smile that looks strained at best, pointedly not shaking the offered hand. “So, you’re the actor or whatever?”

“Aye, that’s me,” Killian agrees, trying hard not to be put out. “I play the male lead in this show, Mr. Darcy.”

“So you and Ems…  _ work  _ together a lot, then?”

So  _ that’s  _ what this is about. Killian almost feels stupid for not putting it together earlier, but it’s hard to miss the strategic emphasis in that sentence that suggests Neal is  _ certain _ something more is happening. Self-important arse.

“Swan works closely with the entire cast, crew, and production team,” he replies carefully. “She’s perhaps the best stage manager I’ve ever seen, and very dedicated to the job at hand. We’re incredibly lucky to have her steering our little ship.”

“Sure.” Neal is obviously skeptical, if his posture and crossed arms are anything to go by. It takes everything Killian has not to roll his eyes at the bastard’s ridiculous posturing. Even Henry is picking up on the tension, looking back and forth between the two men with that same furrowed brow Emma gets when faced with a problem she’s trying to dissect.

“And I bet that’s all it is. Just a  _ professional  _ relationship,” Neal intones, continuing his interrogation. Killian truly questions the man’s judgement; to him, at least, this seems like an inappropriate avenue to be walking down with Henry right there, but then again, he may be biased as the target of the questioning.

“I believe that’s what I already said,” Killian replies. He’s tried to keep civil this whole time, but he can’t help the irritation from creeping into his tone. “We’re colleagues who interact on friendly but professional terms.”  _ Is there a problem with that? _ the argumentative side of Killian is itching to demand, but he refrains for Henry’s sake

“Maybe we should go meet other people,” Henry blessedly cuts in before anything comes to blows or Killian says something he regrets (strangely enough, Neal doesn’t seem to have the same qualms that he does). “I’ll see you later, Killian!” he calls back over his shoulder as he practically drags his father away by the arm. 

“That wasn’t very nice,” Killian hears Henry chastise from around the corner; he somehow doubts that the lad intended his voice to carry so far. Serves the man right, to be scolded by his own son, though Killian would be shocked if Neal suddenly came to regret his actions. A man that comes into town specifically to get on his ex for mostly platonic words said on a television program doesn’t seem the type to suddenly see how ridiculous his actions are.

He knows that Emma is the last person to want any pity, but she has Killian’s all the same. The man seems to be an insufferable prick, or is at least intent on acting like one; as bad as Killian’s interaction with Neal was, he’d be willing to bet that Emma’s in for something even more infuriating. He sure hopes that this dickery is a recent development, because at the moment, he has no idea what Emma ever saw in that man.

It’s none of Killian’s business, not really, but he can’t help but feel angry on Emma’s behalf that she’ll have to deal with whatever bullshit that bastard chooses to spew at her. Whatever interrogation he just had to suffer, she’ll undoubtedly have to deal with even worse. The more he thinks about it, the more frustrated he gets, until there’s nothing else to do about the matter - he calls Liam. It was either that or go hunt down Neal to ask a bunch of uncalled-for questions in a petty form of revenge.

“Make it quick, brother,” Liam immediately says when he answers, “the filming break is ending in seven minutes.”

“Emma’s ex is the most insufferable man alive,” Killian declares, launching right in.

“Good to know. And how exactly do you know this?” Liam asks in return.

“The arse showed up at the theater today - which was  _ not _ expected, let me tell you, Henry was shocked to see his father. He obviously has never set foot in a theater, looking around everywhere and getting underfoot. And from everything I hear from Henry, he doesn’t exactly see his dad often, no other spontaneous visits like he was trying to claim this is. And this only a few days after that blasted interview aired! What a wild coincidence!” Killian says sarcastically. “So here he is, showing up to ask me a bunch of questions about whether Emma and I are  _ really _ just colleagues. Funny, that.”

“Sounds frustrating,” Liam replies, making all the right noises even if he’s a little lost as to what’s going on. 

“God, he’s such a pretentious arse. Waltzing right on in here like he gets a say in Swan’s work life. Or her personal life. Hell, the man’s barely around enough to earn the right to an opinion in  _ Henry’s _ life. Try telling him that, though.”

“Speaking of which, do you plan on telling Emma all this?” Liam poses a good question, but Killian’s a bit conflicted on how to answer.

“I don’t know. She’ll be dealing with enough from him, you know? Not to mention everything else that’s going on around here - it’s a rough tech day to boot, as if she needs more on her plate. I don’t want to add any more stress. But at the same time… it feels deceptive, not telling her? Like I’m not supplying her with all the pieces of a problem.”

Liam hums. “So what are you going to do then?”

“I don’t  _ know _ ,” Killian whines back. “I’m just frustrated.”

“And that’s completely understandable,” Liam soothes. “Someone’s showed up to make trouble for a friend - someone you care for. It makes sense that you’d be angry on her behalf.”

“But what do I  _ do _ , Liam?” he demands.

“Well, how about this for a compromise: if you see her before he leaves, you keep mum so as not to create more stress or be the cause of any conflict, but if you next see her afterwards, you do mention it. I’m quite firmly on the side of letting her know eventually, just so she can take whatever steps need taking to keep this kind of thing from happening again,” Liam suggests.

“I think I can manage that.” Venting to Liam hasn’t truly solved any problems, but he still feels better, like a dark cloud has been lifted from over his head. “Thanks, Liam. I know you’re busy, but I needed that. I’ll let you go, but really, thank you for being a listening ear.”

“Aye, I’ve got to be getting back,” Liam agrees. “Anytime though, Kil, I’m always here to listen. Hang in there - you and your lady both. Love you, little brother.” And before Killian can respond, even with a correction, the call disconnects.

Huffing a sigh, Killian attempts to release some of the remaining tension, before finally returning his attention to… whatever he came down here for in the first place. Thanks to certain unpleasant visitors, he’s having trouble remembering.

Really, damn the man and all the chaos he’s causing in his wake.

———

There’d been half a hope in the back of Emma’s mind that maybe she’d wrap up everything that needed immediately taking care of before Neal got bored and wandered back again, if only to avoid her ex pulling that “how dare you inconvenience me, my time is more valuable than yours” act again, charming though it is. Sadly, the universe is not on her side in that wish, and Neal and Henry are already waiting at the front, the former already reprising his impatient scanning from earlier as Henry happily chatters away about God knows what.

“Does she always leave you waiting like this?” Emma hears Neal ask, his voice carrying despite the distance.

Henry shrugs nonchalantly in response. “I go talk to everyone. Sometimes Mom lets me help out around here too.”

“Oh, so she’s putting you to  _ work? _ ” Neal’s voice is scandalized - that’s the only word for it. Now that she’s almost to where the two stand, she can see the shock on his face too.

Emma will stand for a lot of things from Neal, but that’s an implication too far. “Yes, I make him lug fifty pound fly weights all over the place. Builds character,” she replies, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Neal rolls his eyes. “Oh, c’mon, Em, you know I wasn’t suggesting that —” he tries to protest, but Emma cuts him off.

“Yeah, you kinda were. Henry, go get your stuff so you and your dad can get something to eat.” Henry scampers off at her suggestion, seemingly all too glad to escape the tension boiling between his parents, a tension that’s about to burst into something worse.

“C’mon, what was that about, Emma?” Neal whines, but Emma’s having none of it.

“Cut the crap, Neal. You wanted to talk, so talk. Starting with the real reason you’re here.”

“Well,” he states, “I saw the  _ Sign-Off _ interview Monday night.”

Emma groans. She should have seen this coming, but that doesn’t make it any less stupid. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m serious! I’m laying in bed watching some… stuck-up actor talk about how  _ dedicated _ you are to the show —”

“And what, you took that as code for ‘child neglect’? Because someone I work with said I’m good at my job?”

Neal’s silence is telling. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, you really thought that, didn’t you?” Emma manages to spit out. “Jesus Christ, Neal.”

“Look, I just know what I saw, ok?” he tries to defend as Emma rolls her eyes. “Don’t I have the right to come make sure you’re not neglecting my son, actually taking care of him instead of spending all your time at work or with some… some pretty boy?”

“That is fucking rich coming from you, Neal. Always so busy with your fancy job and your fancy house and your pretty little wife that you can’t even remember to call your son half the time. Fucking rich. I am doing  _ everything _ I can to give that kid the best life,” she hisses, stabbing a finger into his chest, “and that’s a hell of a lot more than you’ve done. I’m the one that helps him with his homework, and takes care of him when he’s sick, and listens to all his worries. I’m the one who knows the names of all his friends and which takeout places are his favorite and how to best comfort him when he’s sad. Meanwhile, you couldn’t even be bothered to admit he was yours for  _ five fucking years! _ ” She’s practically shouting by the end, and only hopes Henry is too far away to hear. Neal just stands there glowering as Emma picks up steam. At least he seems to have picked up on the fact that he doesn’t have a leg to stand on. 

“And for the record?” she finishes, trying to lower the volume of her voice and probably failing. “I’m not dating Jones, or anyone else. But even if I was, that would be  _ none of your goddamn business. _ Just like your marriage is none of mine.” Neal finally opens up his mouth to speak, but Emma throws up a hand to stop him before he even starts. “No. We’re done here. You and Henry can leave out the stage door. Have him home by 8, it’s a school night and he has homework.” Emma’s shaking with rage by the end of her tirade, but stands her ground, and with a final huff, her ex stalks off to find their son. Good riddance.

As Neal makes his disgraced departure, still shooting dirty looks over his shoulder, Emma finally relaxes, practically collapsing in on herself. Yes, there are still problems to come in her day, but those are normal problems, the kind that she knows to account for when going to work in the morning. Neal’s presence was a different kind of stressor, one she can’t prepare for, and when shoved at her on top of her work-related stress, it sets a tension into her shoulders that’s unmatched by anything else. Honestly, based off the bullshit Neal was tossing her way, you would have thought Killian has said she was making Henry work sixty hour weeks, not that she was good at her job. For fuck’s sake.

Dropping her head back, Emma takes a moment just to re-center herself before straightening again to return to the booth, only to turn around to spot Robin with a less than pleased look on his face. In fact, she’d go far as to say that she’s never seen him look so furious. Abruptly, Emma’s stomach plummets. God, he must have seen or heard the confrontation with Neal; in the heat of it all, they probably weren’t as quiet as quiet as they should have been. It wasn’t fair of Emma to bring that kind of drama into their workplace, and Robin has every right to be angry about it, but still, it feels like a heavy stone in the pit of her stomach to see that look directed at her.

Quickly, she hurries to meet her colleague at the back of the aisle where he stands, stumbling over apologies the whole while. “Robin, I’m so sorry, you should never have heard - it won’t happen again -” she tries to tell him, but Robin throws up a hand to halt her words in their tracks.

“Stop,” he tells Emma. “Just… stop.” Oh god, he must be really mad. All Emma wants to do is apologize profusely and try to make this right, but she can’t do that if he’s not receptive to hearing it. The stone grows heavier and heavier in her stomach. 

Robin exhales a deep breath, as if trying to calm himself down, and Emma braces herself for whatever he’s about to say. He must see or sense that somehow - probably a benefit of spending hours together every day in a space that always seems too small and crowded - because some of the anger recedes from his face, a small amount of tension easing from his frame as he reaches to grasp Emma by the shoulders.

“I’m not mad at you,” he tells her in a voice that’s somehow simultaneously both firm and gentle. Emma imagines it’s the same voice he uses with Roland from time to time. If not, he should - it’s effective. 

“You’re not?” she replies in a voice that’s smaller than she’d prefer. Oh well; Robin won’t judge her for that. 

“Gods above, no. I’m mad, yes, but not at you,” he explains solemnly, “Emma, darling, please believe me when I tell you this: no one could watch the display that absolute bastard was making of himself and be mad at you.  _ None of this _ is on you. All of my anger is on your behalf, that he had the very nerve to stand there and say such things.”

“You don’t have to say that,” Emma mumbles. Still, her cheeks flush at the gesture and the care behind those words.

Robin just shrugs. “Maybe I don’t  _ have _ to, but I’m going to anyways. You’re my friend, Emma,” he explains, “and I see what you do every day. I know exactly how much you give this job, and I know you give Henry even more, as much as a human being can. It’s… preposterous, to even suggest the two are mutually exclusive. Look, I know our situations aren’t exactly the same,” he prefaces, “but I know how easy it is to lose a lot of yourself in being a parent, just by virtue of trying to ensure that your kid has everything. You may not be dating Jones, or anyone else, but so what if you were? You’re allowed to try and find that kind of happiness for yourself, on top of the happiness you get from Henry. The fact that  _ Neal -  _ ” he spits out the name with unexpected derision - “thinks that he gets a say in that, just because he’s Henry’s father, is laughable. Absurd. Especially since he’s one step above an absentee parent.”

Emma can’t help but feel a rush of platonic affection at his words, though she’s mortified to feel those feelings welling into tears of relief and gratitude. It’s true that Mary Margaret and Ruby and Elsa have been agreeing with her about how much of an ass Neal is for years, but they’re practically family; there’s always kind of been that feeling that they have to say that because of their long and close connection to Emma. There’s something meaningful and vindicating about hearing Robin, a coworker of significantly less acquaintance, say the same thing - that her ex is a jerk who has no right to have any opinions about her personal life.

Robin doesn’t know that they’re good tears, however, and his leftover fury quickly morph into a confused concern. “Are you crying?” he asks, not waiting for an explanation. “Oh, please, Emma, don’t cry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that, I didn’t mean to upset you — ”

“It’s alright, Robin,” Emma cuts in with a teary chuckle. “It just means a lot to hear you say that. Thank you.”

“Ah, well, we’ve got to stick together, don’t we?” Robin smiles. “Single parents banding together and all that. Though, for the record, every one of us in here is rooting for you, not just me. Kristoff is as mad as I’ve ever seen him, and I thought Scarlet was about to bash his nose in.”

“Yeah, well, Scarlet just wanted the stage cleared so he could get his work done. Any opportunity to brain Neal with the light bar was just an added bonus,” Emma replies, snorting less than gracefully, happy to see a path out of the emotional bog she’d inadvertently waded into.

“You’re not wrong there,” Robin admits, breaking into his own bout of laughter. At the end of it, the mood is lighter for both of them, and while Emma is still irritated with her stupid-ass ex - a permanent thing, really, even if it’s a bit more than usual at the moment - the blind panic their argument had spawned about what everyone else is going to think of her has abated, thank god.

“Hang in there, darling,” Robin concludes with a collegial pat to her back. “We’re all here for you if you need to vent or plot a murder. Though, I should tell you,” he continues more seriously, “rumor has it that Neal was giving Killian the third degree earlier.”

“Of course he was,” Emma groans, dropping her head back melodramatically before setting her shoulders once again. “Sounds about par for the course today.”

Robin chuckles. “Nothing you can’t handle, o fearsome leader,” he teases. “Now go be a badass, prove him wrong.”

And you know what? Emma’s going to do just that. After one last stop, that is.

——— 

Killian doesn’t expect Emma to show up in the doorway of his dressing room as he runs through his pre-show prep - in fact, for one irritated moment, he’s convinced it’s Cassidy come back to grill him some more.

“You scared me there,” he comments, tossing a grin towards where Emma leans against the door frame. “I thought you were our charming visitor.”

Emma winces at the words. “Yeah, about that…”

“Oh god, he’s not coming back, is he?” Killian groans. It would be just his luck if the man was standing right behind Swan, but at this point, they’re already on poor enough terms that he’s willing to risk it. It’s not like things can disintegrate any further.

Thankfully, Swan emphatically shakes her head to that. “No, no, he and Henry are off getting dinner somewhere. But I  _ did  _ hear that you guys had the pleasure of meeting.”

Belatedly, Killian realizes that as awful as he thinks Emma’s ex is, she maybe doesn’t want to hear that from others. She’s the one who has to deal with him for the foreseeable future; his conversation with Liam aside, it seems bad form to complain about the man to Emma’s face and potentially make her feel worse, both about the prospect of dealing with Neal and about the fact that he’s here in the first place. The latter is most certainly not her fault.

“Yes, he’s, uh… it was interesting, meeting the man,” Killian finally says, as diplomatically as he can manage. 

Swan, thank God, is having none of that however. “Oh please. He’s an ass. A real piece of work. No use beating around the bush, it’s not going to hurt my feelings or anything. I’ve got thicker skin than he does.”

“Ah, well, as long as you said it first,” he laughs. Suddenly, he remembers an earlier part of their conversation - the bit about how she heard Neal and he had talked - and something clicks. “Wait, you’re not here to apologize for his utter lack of manners, are you Swan?”

Her face contorts into a sheepish smile. “Maybe?”

“Well save your breath, love,” Killian insists. “There’s no need. His actions and his words are in no way your fault. You know that, right?” It feels crucial that she knows that.

“Yeah, Robin told me pretty much the same thing,” she replies. “Still. I feel bad that you had to deal with him at all.”

“Put it out of you mind, love, I beg you. I’ll admit that he wasn’t a particularly pleasant part of my day, but I’ll put him out of my mind soon enough. He’ll be a footnote, at best. Don’t worry yourself about it, please.”

“I mean, if you’re sure…” she trails off uncertainly, that guilty look still darkening her face.

“I insist,” he says with finality. He can still see Emma’s doubts lingering though, so he quickly shifts to teasing. “I do have to ask, though,” he says, noting the trace of caution that appears in the crease between her brows, “what did you ever see in him?”

At his teasing smile, Emma releases the tension she’s holding again, going so far as to roll her eyes at the question, and they’re able to resume their banter again, continuing on as if Neal and his nonsense never happened.

(His line that evening about Collins being a pompous, prattling fool seems a little more pointed than it ever has before, but the audience doesn’t need to know that. Killian is confident that Emma hears it all the same.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We survived that! Neal's still the worst, though. Or, as my beta (thanks, @snidgetsafan!) calls him, "Lil' Bitch". She's not wrong. Next week: a good bit of the relationship progress you guys have been clamoring for!
> 
> Thanks to everyone for all your wonderful feedback - keep it up! For the rest of you, I run on kudos, comments, and reblogs, so please think about feeding me. 
> 
> Speaking of, also posted on tumblr! I'm @shireness-says. Please come give this story some love, it would mean a lot to me. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, I can't wait to share next week's chapter with you guys!


	16. Chapter 15: I Could Have Danced All Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from My Fair Lady.
> 
> This chapter really starts to move things forward for our favorite couple, which I know you guys have been waiting for. Hope you enjoy!

There’s something to said for bonds forged in fire, and the Gold episode immediately followed by the Neal debacle, with Killian’s crisis of confidence in between, definitely qualifies as such.

Still, it feels like they’ve turned a corner in their relationship, be that as it may. It’d be hard to say otherwise after having each seen each other… not at their best. (Personally, Killian finds “not at his best” to be too tame a descriptor. Emma still managed to be strong and fierce under intense personal pressure; meanwhile, he turned into an absolute mess when faced with his own nerves.) Killian couldn’t say what exactly caused the change, if there was a particular moment or realization on Emma’s part that served as a catalyst, but their interactions feel more open, like some emotional or mental barrier between the two of them has been dropped. Emma smiles and teases right back at Killian and his terrible attempts to charm her, and it’s  _ nice _ . Better than nice, really; lovely, wonderful,  _ stupendous _ . It feels like they’ve been shouting across a canyon for months, and they’ve finally managed to make it to the same side.

He’s still treading carefully, of course; Killian has absolutely no interest in pushing Emma’s boundaries more than she’s comfortable with and risking scaring her off, especially if it’s because he accidentally got too confident. She told him back in October that she didn’t want to mix her work and personal lives; he’d be a prick of the highest order - not to mention a fool - to disrespect that. It’s always been a delicate dance, working respectfully around his feelings for Emma, and this is no different. Still, he can’t help but experience a new feeling of hope, born of what feels like a new level of comfort between himself and his lovely Swan.

It’s that new-found comfort that lands them in their latest situation, really. Well, that and a limited-run production of  _ Assassins. _

The original plan had been for Liam to visit at the end of March to look at apartments. The possibility they had discussed at Christmas of Liam purchasing a place in the city once his movie was done is moving forward into actuality, the brothers trading listings back and forth via email and marking properties to view together in person. Killian’s ecstatic at the prospect. It already feels like he’s living some fantastical dream, being allowed to fill this amazing role in a thriving production and having so many wonderful friends, but having his brother living nearby would send that dream straight into perfection. He can’t wait.

He’s heard the news, of course, of a limited-run revival of  _ Assassins _ rehearsing nearby, and it immediately piques his interest. Killian’s thoughts just as quickly turn to Emma and that first really conversation they had, remembering her own affection for this show, and he’s tempted, he really is. The show is something he knows she’d enjoy, and he wants so badly to invite her to join him to see it, but he also knows just how much that could seem like a date. It’s true that lately he’s sensed her opening up, sensed a growing affection on her side, but the idea of asking and being turned down again - especially after he vowed to keep things platonic that first time - terrifies him. Killian wishes he could be brave, wishes he could know whether or not she’d say yes, but at the end of the day he can’t muster the courage.

He still buys two tickets for a preview performance during Liam’s visit with the intent to take his brother. In the back of his mind, the thought had niggled that he could always ask Swan to accompany him if Liam had to back out for some reason. He ignores that voice though; no use making plans for something that won’t happen.

Until, of course, it does.

Liam doesn’t cancel, exactly, but he does push his visit back a week, past the date of the performance. And yes, Killian could probably see about trading his tickets for another night - he’s got connections and clout in this industry now and can make it happen - but in a way, it feels like fate. And who is he to mess with fate?

He crafts the words carefully in his head before he approaches Emma, rehearsing how he’ll tell her that the other ticket was purchased for his brother, and now that Liam won’t be in town to use it, he remembered how much Emma had wanted to see the musical performed and thought he’d check to see if she was interested. Pure coincidence, no plotting, not a date. Just a man trying to make use of a spare ticket. Completely innocent.

Of course, that goes out the window when the moment finally arrives.

His palms are already sweating, that nervous spot behind his ear itching like mad as he approaches. Contrary to logic, it doesn’t help to see Emma smiling at him in a friendly manner; if anything, that makes it worse, since Killian knows what he’s about to do might wipe that expression off her face if he goes about it the wrong way.

“Hey, do you need something?” Emma asks, turning her full attention to him.  _ Not helping _ .

“I, uh… well… errr…” Killian stutters. He’s an utter mess, and he’ll chastise himself about that later if he can  _ just get the damn words out _ -

Emma’s face takes on a concerned expression as he stands there, tying his tongue into knots.  _ Even worse. _ “Are you alright, Killian?” she asks.

“Do you want to go to a show with me?” he manages to finally blurt out all in one breath, the words that had previously refused to emerge now rushing out as whatever dam was holding them back seemingly bursts and surely turning him into an even greater fool in her eyes.

It must have been damn near unintelligible, as Emma just looks at him in confusion. “What?”

Killian takes a deep breath to calm himself before trying again. “I have two tickets to go see a preview performance of _ Assassins _ . Would you like to go with me?”  That attempt at forming a proper, comprehensible sentence is much more successful, he’s relieved to note, even though it’s still not going the way he had rehearsed so diligently.

“What, like a date?” Emma’s tone is questioning - you’ll get that with a question, he supposes - but Killian is surprised to note that it’s not disgusted or horrified or wary or any of the other things he had feared - just genuinely curious, as far as he can tell. He’ll have to examine that more closely later.

Still, he’s not taking any chances. “No, no, Liam was supposed to go with me, but he’s had to reschedule his trip for the week after the performance,” Killian rushes to explain. Emma quickly nods - a gesture of understanding. “If you’re not interested, I’ll see if I can trade them in, but I just thought… I mean, I know we talked about  _ Assassins _ a few months ago…” he trails off before taking a breath to circle around back to the beginning. “Would you like to go with me?”

Emma stares at him a moment longer before replying - not judgmentally, just thoughtfully. Still, it sends Killian’s stress through the roof. This was a terrible idea, awful, the worst he’s ever had - 

“Yeah, I’d like that,” she finally replies, a smile starting to shine on her face. “Yeah. That sounds good. When?”

Killian practically collapses in on himself with the relief of hearing that response. Still, he tries to hold it together, to play at keeping his cool at least. “It’s a Sunday evening. Not this Sunday, but the next. I can send you the details.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’d be great,” she nods along. She’s got that distance in her eye that Killian’s learned means she’s doing calculations in her head. “So probably a couple hours after we wrap up here. Would you want to maybe grab some dinner too, kill the time in between?”

He knows she’s probably just thinking of all this from a practical angle, but the words still make his stomach lurch and his heart skip a beat just for a moment. They’d agreed -  _ mutually _ agreed - that this wasn’t a date, but the more they flesh out this plan the more it’s starting to seem like a date. “Of course, I’d love that,” Killian readily agrees, hoping he doesn’t sound quite as pathetically eager as he strongly suspects he does.

“Okay, great,” Emma nods decisively. “It’s a - that sounds like a plan.”

_ Had she been about to say ‘it’s a date’? _ Killian wonders. It sure sounds like she was. Any attempts to play it cool are a lost cause now; a grin openly stretches his lips, unmistakable and impossible to miss. “Aye, that it is,” he replies.

If pressed, he’ll admit that he still has no idea what he’s gotten himself into, but at the same time, he can’t quite bring himself to care. He’s going to dinner and a show with Emma Swan. 

——— 

The thing is, Emma has been thinking about her personal life ever since Neal’s visit and how it’s not anyone else’s goddamn business. Most obviously, it's not any of her ex’s business, despite how much he thinks he gets a say. That was never under consideration. But his assumptions, and Robin’s words afterwards, get her thinking about all the other tacit expectations she keeps trying to meet. The stage manager and actor dating issue she’s been so fixated on isn’t nearly as much of a problem as she keeps harping on about; it’s not unheard of in the industry, and Merlin and the rest of the cast and crew certainly wouldn’t have an issue with it. 

It’s always been a convenient excuse though, a wall to throw up between herself and a man she hadn’t always known so well. But he’s not some random actor or a practical stranger she works with anymore, he’s… well, he’s  _ Killian _ . He’s dedicated and charming and kind and still seemingly devoted to her, despite the fact that Emma’s done nothing but push him away. There’s expectations in play there, too, Emma’s own feelings that she can’t date and still be all the things she is now: a good friend, a successful career woman, a doting mother. The thing she’s realizing, however, is that allowing herself romantic interests and feelings and a love life doesn’t necessarily take away from all the rest. If anything, it would make her more herself. It’s like Robin said - she’s allowed to be a person outside of all those other things, allowed to take that for herself.

She’s not ready to dive into a relationship, per se. That seems like an awful big jump, one she’s not quite ready to commit to. But she’s coming around, slowly becoming more open to the idea. And Killian’s suggestion of a not-a-date date plays right into her acclimation process. 

So Emma says yes, for once in her life.

She doesn’t regret the acceptance either, she’s happy to realize. What she  _ does _ regret, however, is telling her friends about it, who make a fuss over the whole thing like she’s attending the Oscars with a movie star, not going to see a musical with Killian.

(She knows they’re only doing this because it’s so rare, because Emma  _ never _ dates, but she’s just annoyed enough by the squealing and attention to ignore that fact.)

It starts with Elsa, when Emma has to ask if her neighbor will keep an eye on Henry, or at least make sure he doesn’t set the apartment building on fire. Emma had tried, valiantly at that, to keep things vague, but Elsa is persistent. In the end, Emma feels like she can’t ask her friend for such a big favor while also hiding the reason that favor is needed, and ends up spilling the beans - only to regret it immediately.

“Oh, this is so exciting!” the frosty blonde enthuses. “What are you going to wear? Don’t tell me you’re just wearing your work clothes, it’s a first date. You’ve got to dress up for it.”

“It’s not a date, though,” Emma quickly cuts in, wagging her finger in a move she  _ definitely _ isn’t interested in using again until she’s 65. “We agreed on that. Just… two friends, going to see a show.”

Elsa is very obviously less than impressed. “Uh huh. Sure, Emma,” she intones. Somehow, her tone still shouts  _ yeah right!, _ even if she’s too refined to actually say the words.

“Believe me or not, that’s the truth,” Emma shoots back.

“We’ll see about that,” Emma thinks she hears the other blonde mutter under her breath, but then again, she can’t be certain of it. Considering that Elsa drops the subject after that, turning back towards safer avenues, Emma’s willing to drop her right to the last word in this one case.

Henry isn’t any better when she informs him of the change in plans, unfortunately. Her kid’s always been too clever for his own good, possessing a sass that’s a fearsome combination of Ruby’s and her own, but Emma wishes in that moment that they could maybe turn off the commentary just for a few minutes.

“Oh, am I going to have to give him a talk or something?” he asks eagerly

“I don’t know why you’d have to,” Emma replies. It seems easier to play dumb, even if she really knows exactly what the kid is suggesting, but Henry’s having none of that.

“Well because it’s a date,” he elaborates. “I just feel like I’m supposed to give him a talk or something. You know, ‘have her home by eleven’ and ‘you hurt her, I hurt you’ and all that. The whole nine yards.”

“Ok, first, it’s not a date,” Emma defends. God, why is everyone insisting this is a date, after she’s explicitly said it isn’t? “And second, I love you, kiddo, but totally not your place. Like, really. I don’t need anyone I date being interrogated by my eleven year old.”

“Yeah, but who else is going to do it?” Henry asks, brow furrowed with concern. “We look after each other, Mom. That’s my job.”

Oh, damn the kid, going straight for the heart. Unexpectedly, Emma feels a lump of emotion forming in her throat. “I know. Thanks, kid,” she finally responds, pulling Henry into a one-sided hug. She holds tightly for a moment, relishing the sheer fact that Henry is allowing the gesture, before pressing a firm kiss to the crown of his head and releasing him to cross to the kitchen. “Still not a date, though!” she calls over her shoulder.

“See if that stops me!” Henry yells back.

(She’s really got a good kid.)

Of course, telling Elsa and telling Henry means telling everyone in her little family circle, whether she wants to or not, and by the time the fateful night arrives, Emma’s grown truly sick of Mary Margaret and Ruby’s excited squealing.

(Sick with nerves, more like; secretly, she relishes the chance to experience some of these female bonding moments that she missed growing up, even if the pitch of their voices is a little headache inducing. She can deal with that. Emma just hopes they haven’t been gushing at Killian in the same way, or the nerves may instead turn into embarassment.)

“You have to tell us  _ everything, _ ” Mary Margaret echoes for what must be the thousandth time since she’s found out, bouncing on the balls of her feet as Emma tries to put on some basic makeup. Nothing too fancy; after all it’s not a date. But it is dinner and it is a show and that still demands a certain level of attention to her appearance, even if it’s just for the event and not for the person she’s going with.

(That’s what Emma tells herself at least; further down, buried deep inside, is a little voice that whispers about the flabbergasted look on Killian’s face when he first saw how she was dressed at that opening night party, and how much fun it would be to replicate that reaction.)

Still, Emma protests what all that excitement implies. “For the last time, there’s not going to be anything to tell, Mary Margaret,” she insists. “It’s not a date.”

“Maybe not, but it’s the closest you’ve had to one in literal years,” Ruby points out, handing Emma a tube of lipstick. Bright crimson - not her taste. Emma sets it aside.

“That’s right,” Mary Margaret eagerly agrees. “Whatever you claim about this ‘not being a date’” she says, bulldozing over Emma’s noises of protest, “it’s still an outing with a man. A nice man. Who likes you. And wants to take you to dinner and a show.” By the end of her listing, the petite brunette is practically beaming. 

Emma bites back a groan. “If I agree to give you all the details - though they will be sparse, since this is  _ not a date _ ,” she cautions, “will you drop this? Honestly, you’re going to give me a headache and keep me home from this… whatever.”

Mary Margaret grins even wider, if that’s possible. “Deal.”

“Ok, but just one more thing before you gag us,” Ruby cuts in. While Mary Margaret’s smile is excited and almost concerningly eager, Ruby’s is almost feral, thirsty for blood - or at least all the juicy details. “Did you ever think that maybe the reason you don’t know what to call this night out is because it’s a date?” Emma takes a break from applying her lipstick - a much less obnoxious shade than Ruby’s pick, thank you very much - to glower at her friend. 

“Alright, that’s it from me,” Ruby happily, almost smugly finishes. 

Luckily for her, there’s a knock on the dressing room door before Emma can retaliate. “I’ll get it!” Mary Margaret practically sings, flouncing over to open it for what must be Killian waiting.

Sure enough, Killian’s standing on the other side in his street clothes, smiling back with a note of confusion at the wild grin Mary Margaret practically assaults him with. “I’m, uh… here for Emma?” he asks her

“She’s all ready for you!” Mary Margaret chirps back. Emma rolls her eyes as she stands up and gathers her purse, slipping into her jacket to protect against the spring breeze.

Emma turns back to meet Killian and finally make her exit, brisk and all business, but Killian still seems to be stopped short, eyes wide as he takes in her appearance. “Swan, you look…” he breathes. Emma thinks she hears a muffled squeal from Mary Margaret’s direction, but Killian thankfully doesn’t seem to notice.

“Oh. Thanks,” Emma awkwardly replies. Personally, she doesn’t think her look is anything too special - black top, tights, wool skirt, and boots, all topped with her trusty red leather jacket. Something on the nicer end of casual, but nothing she’d think would elicit this kind of reaction. Clearly, Killian thinks differently.

(That little voice in Emma’s head feels very satisfied.)

“Are you ready to go?” she asks, quickly changing the subject. It seems easier than trying to really process that look on his face.

Killian quickly nods, snapping back to attention. “Aye, whenever you are, love,” he replies, stepping to the side so that Emma can pass through the doorway.

“Have fun, you two!” Mary Margaret sing-songs in a parting gesture.

“Yeah, be safe, you two!” Ruby adds in, salacious tone adding just enough innuendo to the relatively tame words.

Emma could kill them both, but she doesn’t have the time.

Still, her face flushes a ferocious red as she and Killian make their way to the stage door. “I don’t suppose I could convince you that you never heard that?” she asks, barely resisting the urge to cover her face with her hands.

Killian chuckles at that. “I’m afraid it’s a little late for that, Swan,” he replies. His tone is tinged with notes of apology, but that doesn’t help Emma’s mortification in any way, shape, or form.

“They’re just excited about this on my behalf,” Emma tries to explain. “I don’t… take time for myself like this very often.” That’s not precisely true - she obviously goes out with the two of them and Elsa on occasion, and they’re more excited because this whole thing is date-adjacent - but it’s close enough.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” Killian replies. It’s mildly reassuring, Emma has to say, though she’ll never admit that out loud. “I’ve met both lovely ladies, and I know first-hand how excitable they can be.”

“Yeah, they’re… a lot.”

“They care about you, though,” Killian points out, smiling softly.

Emma sighs. “Yeah. I know. They do. Though sometimes I wish they’d be a little less  _ obnoxious _ about it.”

That elicits a loud bark of laughter from Killian, one loud enough to turn the heads of bystanders in the street. Emma can’t quite bring herself to care, though, not when he’s so happy. Call her a sentimental sap, but she likes seeing that grin. “Aye, well, if they’re anything like Liam is, I don’t think there’s much hope of them stopping. And I know I at least would probably miss it.”

“Yeah, well, I still think we should test that theory out,” Emma grumbles, drawing out another burst of laughter. “ _ Anyways _ , enough about those busybodies. Where are we getting dinner?”

“I thought we’d try the Italian place on 8th?” Killian suggests. “I’ve been meaning to check it out for a while, if you’re amenable. It’s an easy distance both from here and the theater tonight. If that sounds good to you, of course,” he hastens to add.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Emma readily agrees. “God knows I’m always here for Italian.”

Dinner is nice, for lack of a better word. Comfortable. Emma feels like a real adult, sitting here in a nice restaurant having dinner with a friend without Ruby’s need to party or Mary Margaret’s need to dissect everyone’s emotional state. It’s… well, it’s almost a date. Except it’s not. At the end of a very nice meal - including a shared helping of tiramisu, not that that should be viewed through any lens besides the practical - they split the check. There’s no hand-holding over the table or arms slipped around waists going to or from the restaurant. But it’s an adult conversation with a nice man paying her his undivided attention. Hell, she even samples a bite of his carbonara and offers a taste of her gnocchi in return. There’s all the feeling of a date, all while that agreement that this is definitely  _ not _ a date hangs over their heads.

“God, why don’t I do things like this more often?” Emma wonders as they walk towards the theater where  _ Assassins _ is showing.

“Well you do have a young boy to care for,” Killian replies, lips twisting into a small smile of repressed amusement.

“Well, yeah. Obviously,” Emma concedes. “Still. This is fun. Makes me wonder if I don’t ‘let loose’ often enough, or whatever.”

The smile turns more salacious, more of a smirk than the gentle thing it was before. “Well, maybe you just needed someone to show you how.”

(And maybe he’s right about that, maybe he’s just the person to bring that to her life.)

Killian turns out to be just the kind of person who’s perfect to see a show with. He’s willing to trade factoids and things they’re most excited for before the curtain rises, but still happy to quietly read the program inserts without trying to engage Emma in one-sided conversation. There’s no side commentary either that distracts Emma from the performance like Mary Margaret and Ruby are both infamous for at times. He’s a perfect gentleman, through and through, and the ideal companion with whom to see this show that she’s been hoping to see for years.

He’s even good enough not to linger on what Emma feels is one of her less shining moments. She’s a technical theater professional; she’s been around prop guns before, knows how they operate, knows they’re harmless. Still, the first shot from John Wilkes Booth’s gun rings through the small theater and she can’t help but jump, reaching instinctively for the hand on the arm rest next to her. Emma feels awfully foolish about it - allowing herself to be so startled, when she knows the script and the effects it calls for - but Killian just squeezes her hand to calm her and is kind enough not to bring it up later, nor does Emma.

(Still - if she’s reluctant to retreat from that gentle grip once her nerves have quieted again, well, can she really be blamed?)

Later, as Killian escorts her home from their little… outing (not a date, definitely not a date, even if there was dinner and a show and a lot of hallmarks of a date), Emma’s surprised by how much fun she had. Well, maybe that’s not quite it. She’s not surprised she had fun - Killian is everything lovely and charming, and the show was one she’s been wanting to see for ages - but she’s surprised she was able to allow herself to enjoy herself as much as she did. Emma’s been used to having her walls up so firmly that she’d forgotten how  _ freeing _ it is to face the world without them.

It’s nearly eleven at night, but as Emma approaches her door with Killian, she’s struck with the unexpected feeling that she really doesn’t want the evening to end. She finds herself stalling without any good reason, rifling through her bag for the door keys, searching for any reason to stretch this out longer.  _ Should she invite him in? No, it’s too late, and Henry’s sleeping in the other room _ , she decides reluctantly. She may want the night to continue, but there’s limits to a not-a-date, and inviting in your not-a-date for not-kissing is well beyond that boundary. Unable to put it off any longer, Emma finally locates her keys and inserts them into the door’s lock before turning back to face Killian.

“Well, I had a lovely time tonight, Swan,” he says, starting to steer the conversation towards its impending conclusion. It’s slightly gratifying to see the same reluctance Emma feels on Killian’s face, but any satisfaction is overshadowed by her own sadness to see the night end.

(A different woman, a less stubborn one, might take that as a sign, but then again, Emma’s never tried to be like most women.)

“Yeah, me too,” she replies. “This was fun.” Their conversation hasn’t suffered all night, the two of them bantering back and forth the whole time, but it suddenly feels as if they’ve hit a lag, the words seeming rote and stunted (even if they are sincerely meant).

“Thank you for coming with me,” he offers back. “There’s something that feels particularly sad, or perhaps pretentious, about going to a show by yourself.”

“You’re not wrong,” Emma agrees. “But yeah, absolutely. My pleasure, or whatever. I really should be thanking you for inviting me.”

There’s a look that crosses Killian’s face for just a moment, one Emma would almost call indecision - maybe a little bit of nerves, too - before it sets back into a flirtatious smile. “Well if you’re looking to express your gratitude…” he teases, tapping a finger against his smirking lips.

A little part of Emma freezes up at the gesture, at the suggestion that they end this with a kiss. He’s not pressuring her; she knows that if she turns him down or redirects the conversation he’ll respect that and be absolutely fine with it. Honestly, he appears to be incredibly nervous waiting for her response, seemingly chewing on the inside of his lip as he waits for her answer.

Maybe it’s his nerves (or how cute they make him look), but Emma finds herself being bold, practically swaying into his space as she replies flirtatiously. “Please. You couldn’t handle it.”

“Perhaps  _ you’re _ the one who couldn’t handle it,” he replies, popping the last syllable as he leans in even closer. 

They’re practically nose-to-nose, and it would be so  _ easy _ to lean up and test that theory. Maybe he’s right; maybe she won’t be able to handle it. But  _ God _ , is she going to have fun trying.

Killian must see the blaze of determination in her eyes, as his tongue darts out to lick at his lips, that hand finally retreating from its favorite nervous spot behind his ear to drop to his side and start inching instead towards Emma’s waist. She’s just about to grab those damned tempting lapels and drag him down, crash their lips together, to hell with the consequences and all of the fears that have been holding her back —

The door scrapes open, causing Emma and Killian to spring back apart (and the latter to return to his nervous scratching, the silly man).

“Hey Mom, do we have any extra toothbrushes?” Henry asks.  _ What is he even doing up? _ Blessedly, he doesn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary between herself and Killian. Thank God for small miracles.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed? I seem to remember it’s a school night,” Emma shoots back, trying to keep too much of an accusatory tone out of her voice.

Henry rolls his eyes in a move he  _ totally _ learned from her, her little brat. “Yeah but I was getting ready to do that and there was, like, a  _ huge _ bug on the bathroom wall. And I smashed it, but stuff kinda flew everywhere and my toothbrush was out on the counter —”

“Oh shit, yeah, throw that away,” Emma cuts in, absolutely disgusted by the chain of events just described. She expects Henry to lead the way and hopefully let Emma have a moment alone with Killian, but he just stands there expectantly, ruling out that faint hope. Not meant to be, she supposes. Emma sighs heavily, turning back to Killian. “Ok, well, I’ve got to deal with that. I’ll see you Tuesday?”

“Of course, Swan, go sort things out with your boy,” he graciously agrees. “I’ll see you later.”

“And really, I had a great time. Thanks for a fun evening.”

“It was my pleasure,” he assures her. 

Emma barely manages to wave before Henry’s own heavy sigh draws her back inside, closing the door between them. 

“What took you so long?” Henry asks as they make their way from the entryway to the bathroom. “I heard the key in the door, but you were taking forever.”

“Just talking with Killian, kid,” Emma quickly lies. Well, not quite lies. There was talking. There was just the possibility of other things too.

If it didn’t seem wrong to call her own kid a cockblocker, Emma would have some choice words for her kid and the situation.

———

Killian makes his way home in a daze, barely processing the subway ride and short walk before he’s suddenly back in his own home. What he thinks just happened couldn’t  _ possibly _ have actually happened, could it? 

Liam is very confused when Killian insistently calls to talk through the event, but patiently listens as his younger brother attempts to make sense of the whole thing.

“So I made some little quip about kissing me as thanks - no, it was just generally about showing gratitude, but then I kind of tapped my lips —”

“Mmmhmmm,” Liam hums, not for the first time. They’re already gone through the sequence of events twice, reaching the same conclusion each time.

“And then she told me that I wouldn’t be able to handle it —”

“An accurate conclusion, if this conversation is any indication at all,” Liam interjects. Killian studiously ignores the comment, instead continuing forward in the conversation as he paces back and forth from living room to kitchen and back again and again.

“ — so I said that  _ she _ was the one who couldn’t handle it. And then it seemed like - well, it  _ seemed _ like she was about to reach for my jacket, and she had this particular look in her eyes…” Killian pauses. “It still seems like she was about to kiss me.”

“Probably because she wanted to kiss you,” Liam comments dryly.

“But you see, that’s impossible. Because we both agreed this wasn’t a date. She’s not interested, we’ve already established that,” Killian fires back. It’s starting to all feel like a bizarre argument with his brother, one he’s not sure why they’re having, but he’s still determined to argue his side with the ferocity of a lawyer in a courtroom drama.

“You say that, but all signs are pointing towards her stance maybe having changed,” Liam points out - again, not for the first time.

The thing is… Liam is maybe right. Killian has dissected the whole incident twelve ways to Sunday by now, and keeps reaching the same conclusion - his and Emma’s flirtatious banter would have led into a kiss - one initiated by the lady herself, at that - if not for Henry’s untimely interruption. Frankly, Killian is still too shocked to even be frustrated with the lad about that. 

“Yeah, but what do I do with that? What does it mean?” he asks helplessly, desperate for direction.

“Well, Kil,” Liam explains patiently, “I think it means you’ve got a chance.”

Imagine that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, they had a sort-of date! And an almost-kiss. It's progress, guys.
> 
> Thanks to @snidgetsafan, my wonderful beta. She'd like you to note the double-entendre possibilities of the title, which she suggested.
> 
> Also posted on tumblr - I'm @shireness-says. Heads up, while next week's chapter will be posted to AO3 on the normal day, it'll be up on tumblr on Tuesday in observance of the log-off protest.
> 
> If you like this, leave me a comment and let me know what you think! I love hearing from you guys.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I'll see you next week!


	17. Chapter 16: Something There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "Beauty and the Best".
> 
> Thanks for all you lovely reactions to the last chapter - we've got more forward momentum this chapter, and then we're heading towards our big finale!
> 
> Enjoy!

Emma thinks about that moment a lot, the almost-kiss from their almost-date, in the following hours, days,  _ weeks _ after the almost-event. Had Henry not interrupted, they would have kissed - Emma’s certain of that. And she would have welcomed it too. In the days following, she can’t help but think about what that kiss might have been like - fantasize, really, if she’s going to argue the semantics. Would it be a soft, gentle thing, two people carefully learning each other in the moment? Or something hungrier, mouths clashing desperately in a vain quest for satisfaction? Most days, Emma leans towards a third option somewhere in between - fierce and determined, yet somehow purposeful, every overture carefully cataloged and remembered while still throwing themselves into the moment.

(God, she drives herself a little crazy just thinking about it.)

She’d been ready for that step. In the moment, maybe it had just been Emma’s competitive spirit that would have surged her forward, but in all the time she’s had since - the chaste time, the lonely time, the time spent not kissing Killian Jones like it turns out she  _ really _ wants to do - has convinced her well enough that it’d been subconsciously something she’d craved. Emma still has the hesitations she’s always had - even if there’s no rule in the books forbidding a relationship between herself and a cast member, it seems a hazy line to cross, and she’s worried to boot that any relationship wouldn’t survive past the daily close proximity when all this is over - but she’s finally able to admit that there’s  _ something _ there. There’s a chemistry and attraction that Killian’s embraced from the start and lord knows everybody else in their lives has noticed, even despite Emma’s determined attempts to push it away. Emma’s not quite ready for wild declarations or throwing herself into the deep end of a relationship, but she’s willing to start feeling out those boundaries and what it might be like if they did try. Maybe.

Emma makes certain to keep an ear out for the reactions of those around her. There’d been no keeping their little outing under wraps, for better or for worse; Mary Margaret, knowing all about the proposed evening and as the head of the theater gossip train, sure has let the whole thing slip to everyone in the building by now, and adding Ruby to that mix certainly doesn’t help. Emma had kept the romantic turn at the end to herself -  _ that _ is truly no one’s business, and she hadn’t been sure what to say about it anyways, at least not when Mary Margaret had demanded all the details the next morning. At that point, Emma still needed more time to turn everything over in her mind. Now, though, when Emma’s had a chance to think things through, she still chooses to keep the details to herself. It feels somehow too monumental to share, and yet simultaneously too intimate. Nothing actually happened anyways, she reasons. There’s not actually anything to report.

Regardless, while the cast and crew at large may not know about the closing details of her evening out with Killian, they do know about the general plans for dinner and a show, and Emma can’t help but remember her original misgivings and worries that seeing a coworker in the manner their outing suggested - even if it wasn’t  _ officially _ a date - would undermine her authority. Nothing really happens, though, to her immense relief; there’s a little bit of gentle teasing and curious attempts to wheedle out some more of the details, efforts that die off when Emma just keeps repeating that it was nice and they had a great time (efforts that die off when she can’t - or won’t - supply any more salacious details), but nothing she needs to worry about. She’s still Boss to her crew, still respected for the authority she wields and the results her leadership has produced. It gives Emma confidence that maybe, if she eventually chose, she and Killian could move forward in a more official and overt relationship. In time, and only if they’re both willing to take that leap of course; Emma’s not in any rush.

In the meantime, she’s got an active imagination to keep her warm, that almost-kiss playing in her head on repeat.

———

Liam’s words stick with Killian - that maybe, just maybe, he’s got a chance with Emma after all. Every moment of that night, the date that wasn’t, sticks in his head playing on a continuous loop. She had almost kissed him.  _ She had almost kissed him!  _ Him, Killian Jones, now known as the luckiest bastard in New York. Though he’s more than happy just remembering the events of that night as they actually occurred, he’d be a liar if he denied imagining what would have happened if they’d actually been able to lock lips. He’s only human, after all.

Regardless, there’s a new bounce in his step and a hope in his heart. Killian dreams of the chance to maybe stage a repeat of that evening, to take Emma out and treat her to a lovely evening and maybe - hopefully - pick up where they left off with those charged actions they shared outside her front door. He’s just waiting for the perfect opportunity to broach the subject.

(Part of Killian thinks that maybe he’s being too cautious - after all,  _ Swan _ is the one who leaned in for that kiss, and their banter has felt like it carries an extra level of flirtation just beneath the surface ever since - but they’ve come too far for him to ruin it all with his impatience now. No, Killian will wait for his perfect moment instead.)

He’s idly considering what plans he’d like to make one Friday as he makes his way towards the green room and its extra stash of bottled water - he’s thinking about the classic dinner and a movie today, though that’s changed before and will again - when Henry unexpectedly appears from around a corner. “Hey, Killian!” the lad calls from down the hall, rushing to join Killian. It sparks within him a little bit of confusion; Henry’s not an unusual sight around the theater, of course, but he usually goes straight home on Fridays after school, accompanying his mother later in the weekend to regale Killian with a full recap of his video game progress. He’s happy to see the lad, but it’s still surprising to see him now.

“Hello, Henry,” he replies, one eyebrow arching in an involuntary expression of puzzlement. “This is something of a surprise. To what do I owe this honor?”

Something about that makes Henry snort in the back of his throat. Maybe over his choice of words? Killian will take the time to properly dissect that later. “I’m off school today. Staff development day or… something,” he explains.

Ah. That makes a bit more sense, at least. Still… “And you chose to spend it here with us? I’m flattered, of course, but I would have thought you’d be at home, catching up on your games.”

Henry shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, and Killian suddenly gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that the circumstances that have brought Henry into their company this evening are of the less than pleasant sort. “Well, I was supposed to go visit Dad,” Henry finally says, “but he had to cancel for some work thing.” 

The poor lad. Henry’s obviously trying to feign indifference, shrugging casually and keeping his voice even as he relates his sad story. Still, Killian gets the feeling that it’s all a front. Henry may be keeping a stiff upper lip, but the way he keeps staring at his sneakers instead of meeting Killian’s eyes still manages to communicate his disappointment.

“I’m sorry, my boy,” Killian replies gently. On instinct, he drops an arm around Henry’s shoulders, pulling him into a hug.

“It’s fine,” Henry shrugs again. For a moment, Killian worries that the lad is attempting to dislodge Killian’s hand and extricate himself from the hug, worries that he’s overstepped, but the hand stays planted and Henry makes no further move to pull away. Sometimes, a shrug is just a shrug. “I found some pirate museum that Dad and I were going to go to, but I guess it can wait until another time.”

Killian isn’t surprised to hear about how that piece of work Neal has reneged on plans with his son, but it still makes him quietly furious to see the way it’s affected Henry. What’s even worse is that, though Henry seems disappointed, he doesn’t seem surprised. That’s probably what pushes Killian over the edge and spurs his next words.

“Well, I know it’s not the same, but maybe you’d like to go out sailing when school lets out?” Killian doesn’t plan to say that, but he can’t bring himself to regret it either when Henry’s face lights up at the offer. “Liam’s got a boat. Or we can rent one. We can figure out something. Is that something you’d be interested in?”

“Yeah!” Henry replies enthusiastically, his disappointment at least temporarily put on the back burner.

“Ok, well in that case, when’s the last day of school?”

“June,” Henry grumbles, deflating slightly. It’s already early April, and to Killian, June seems just around the corner, but it likely seems a lifetime away to an eleven year old. Killian seems to remember feeling that way at that age, at least.

“Well the Monday after school lets out, if your mother gives her permission, you and I will take a little day cruise, how does that sound?” Killian suggests, hoping to bring the boy’s spirits back up with more concrete details to their plan.

“Deal!” Henry grins cheekily, extending his hand to shake and seal the promise. It’s an affectation that feels too old for the boy, and Killian can’t help but chuckle as he grasps the boy’s small, smooth palm in his own.

Killian must be the last one who doesn’t know about Henry’s presence and the reason behind it, as the others periodically passing in the hallway barely do more than wave hello with a smile, exhibiting none of the shock that he had upon seeing the lad. In fact, when the two of them finally walk into the green room, David Nolan seems to have been waiting for Henry, prepared with some ridiculous notion of being some kind of fun uncle. 

“Hey, kiddo, I heard you were hanging out with us today, but that doesn’t mean you have to deal with  _ him _ !” David jokes, hooking a thumb in Killian’s direction as he steers Henry away. “How are you holding up?”

Killian could about throttle the man for bringing up the subject again when he’d  _ finally  _ banished some of the melancholy that had hung about Henry at the beginning of their conversation, but when Henry shrugs again in response to David, it actually manages to seem genuinely nonchalant instead of masking his moroseness. “It’s ok, really,” he tells David.

“Are you sure?” he presses. “Hey! Maybe you can’t go to that museum you wanted, but I’ll bet we could go to Central Park and commandeer one of the rowboats! We’d be real pirates instead.”

The very idea makes Killian laugh - not only does it bring to mind visuals of David and Henry in eyepatches, stripes and ridiculous hats like a bad Peter Pan costume, but David just may be the most honest man Killian has ever met. He may say commandeering, but the reality would be nothing of the sort, paying for more time than they’d need or leaving a hefty tip. There are certain people out there cut out for piracy - Killian suspects he might be one of them, and Emma as well - but David Nolan is certainly not one. David may shoot him a dirty look for that burst of laughter, but ultimately, the other man has to know it’s true. 

Henry, at least, is slightly more diplomatic. He can’t quite suppress a smile - likely envisioning the same thing - but he manages not to laugh if nothing else. “That’s okay,” he replies, letting David down easy, “Killian’s taking me sailing this summer.”

“Yeah but that’s still a way off,” David argues back, almost wheedling. “Anything could happen before then. But if we go right now…”

“That’s okay,” Henry repeats. “Killian’s good at following through on his promises. He promised me, so I know we’ll go.”

It’s probably silly, but Killian’s heart warms with a happy glow to hear Henry announce such an unwavering faith in him. He cares for the lad, and would do anything to make him happy; Killian’s only glad Henry understands that too.

Of course, just when Killian’s soaring on that feeling, he spots movement out of the corner of his eye, turning just in time to see Emma adjust her position against the door. She doesn’t look mad, but Killian can’t quite place her facial expression either, and that automatically makes him nervous. The plan had always been to gain her permission before their outing, and now Henry’s announcing it like a sure thing without her input. What does she think of him, hearing him make those plans? He’d never think to step on her toes, especially not where her parenting is concerned; having met her ex, he’s certain she gets more than enough of that from Neal. He’d just wanted to bring a smile back to Henry’s face.

He never meant to overstep his boundaries, has only ever wanted to make them both happy, but will Emma see it the same way?

——— 

She doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. All she had wanted to do was come check on Henry, and she’d overheard it all by complete happenstance from her son’s mouth - the promise made and Henry’s absolute faith in Killian’s dependability.

Emma’s not surprised, not really, not deep down inside in her heart and soul or wherever else she holds definite facts, like those about the kind of person Killian Jones has proved himself to be. Still, it leaves Emma with a warm glow inside to see the faith her son has in Killian and to know that he’ll live up to that. Jones isn’t a man to make promises that he doesn’t intend to keep, unlike certain other figures in her son’s life she could mention; if he says he’ll take Henry out on the water when the weather gets warmer, then somehow, someway, he intends to take Henry sailing. Emma had known he’d still be around physically come summer, of course - his contract is for a year’s worth of performances or until the show closes, whichever comes first, with options for extension - but there’s something personally gratifying, both on Henry’s behalf and her own, to hear that he intends to be there emotionally as well. It leaves her hopeful for the future, to see Killian’s relationship with Henry growing and strengthening just as his relationship with hers does.

As Henry scampers off with David, the blonde man still trying his hardest to engage the boy’s attention and prove himself in some ridiculous way, Killian moves to join Emma instead, flushing rather endearingly. The man is a study in contradictions, really; brash and confident one moment, exuding self-assurance, and the next downright bashful, with nervous tics and all (though oh, how she likes the way he scratches behind that one ear as the tips flush crimson red, likes the way it makes him into a real man instead of some dashing gentleman straight out of a romance novel).

“I suppose you heard all of that,” he says, not quite a question, offering a not-quite-a-smile really somewhere closer to a wince or a grimace.

“You promised to take Henry sailing this summer?” she asks. Honestly, Emma isn’t sure what she’s looking for in that question; she hopes she’ll recognize it when she hears it.

“Yes - that is, if you’re fine with that,” Killian hurries to qualify. “I did plan to ask you Swan —”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine with it,” Emma clarifies. “It’s really sweet of you actually. You just… you just didn’t have to do it, is all. If Henry pressured you or anything —”

“He didn’t, Swan. And I want to. He’s a good lad, and if it’s something I’m able to do for him, then I’m more than happy to. What else is a brother with a boat good for otherwise?” Killian jokes.

“Ah, the truth comes out,” Emma teases back. “It’s not even your boat!”

“Aye, well, you try paying docking fees anywhere near this city,” he grumbles.

“Excuses, excuses.” The silence sits for a moment as Killian smiles a little bashfully before Emma continues. “Anyways, in case Henry didn’t - though I certainly  _ hope _ I’ve raised him better than that - I just want to say thank you. For doing this, and for… everything else. You’re so good with him. I guess… I guess I just want you to know that I’ve noticed that.” It feels important, somehow, that he know that.

“It’s nothing to thank me for, Swan,” Killian replies gently, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Please believe me when I tell you that growing close to Henry has been my genuine pleasure. He’s a remarkable lad.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he is,” Emma agrees. Something about the moment allows her to gather her courage and force out the words resting heavy on her tongue. “Henry and I are getting dinner in a few minutes, do you want to join us?”

“Oh, Swan, I’m not looking for thanks, or a reward,” Killian tries to protest, but that’s not it at all. Emma’s not looking to pay him back, despite the fact she feels like she owes him; she’s asking because Henry likes his company,  _ she  _ likes his company, and it’s about time she admitted it. Their not-a-date has been bouncing around in Emma’s head for days, for  _ weeks _ ; dinner with Killian and her son wouldn’t be quite a date either, but it’s definitely not some business meeting either. After everything that’s happened these past few months, Emma’s finally ready to start cracking open a door to her heart, just that little bit.

“No, I’m not… this isn’t some…” Emma stumbles over her words, quickly running out of that bravery that had spurred her forward before. Heaving a great breath, she straightens her spine and braces herself once again. “I just thought you might want to have dinner with us. Nothing fancy - we were just going to Granny’s, though that could change if you want to go someplace else - but I just thought…” she trails off.

Thankfully, Killian must read something in her face or manner that convinces him, as he raises a reassuring hand to her arm. “I’d love to,” he smiles. “You said in just a few minutes?”

Emma smiles back, hoping too much of her relief doesn’t show on her face. Even if she’s willing to open up a little bit, she’s still hesitant to show all her cards too soon. “Yeah, I’ve just got to grab my purse from the booth.”

“Then lead on, Swan,” he replies, sweeping an arm wide. “After you.”

The trek from backstage, up the stairs to the booth is spent in silence, but Emma’s ok with that. It gives her a chance to reflect on what she’s just done, what she’s just asked, what he’s just agreed to. She’s happy about it, she realizes. Perhaps that shouldn’t be so much of a surprise, given her earlier agreement with herself to start maybe working towards this very outcome, but it is. Emma had halfway expected the panic to set in as soon as the words left her mouth, but ever since he agreed - happily, excitedly even - she’s felt a lightness within herself that has an extra bounce in her step and a smile twitching at her lips. As she climbs the steps, Emma can’t help but sneak glances back over her shoulder at Killian, only to see him sporting a similar smile, a wide and open grin with happy crinkles around his eyes. Seeing him like this, an expression she’d probably describe as ‘cautiously thrilled’ sets a whole swarm of butterflies a-flutter in Emma’s stomach in anticipation.

“I’ll be right back,” she smiles as the door to the booth comes into view just ahead. “Give me just a moment.”

“Oh, but how will I survive in your absence, Swan? For a full minute, at that,” Killian teases.

Emma snorts indelicately. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll manage,” she shoots back.

Killian arches an eyebrow in response. “Well do hurry back, Swan. I’d hate to have to test that theory.”

Emma rolls her eyes affectionately, but she moves to enter the booth all the same. It should take seconds; walk in, grab her bag with her wallet, and walk back out to resume whatever flirtatious banter she and Jones have found themselves in the middle of exploring.

Of course, that doesn’t take into account finding Robin and Regina sucking face in the booth, Regina straddling Robin’s lap in his beloved beat-up leather office chair.

“Oh, Jesus,” Emma can’t help but exclaim, whirling in the other direction to avoid making eye contact with… any of that.

Unfortunately, it also attracts Killian’s attention, who comes rushing in with a concerned look on his face, only to be faced with the same sight. Quickly, he squeezes his eyes shut. “Must we?” he groans.

“Oh please, like you haven’t seen this before,” Regina scoffs. Emma still can’t make eye contact; the brunette’s skirt is riding far too high up her thighs for Emma to comfortably look in their direction. Robin may still look too dazed for speech, traces of lipstick streaked across his own lips, but he’s apparently also too dazed to remove his own hands from where they rest on Regina’s legs, absentmindedly stroking. “Or thought about it in regards to yourselves,” she adds pointedly.

(In other circumstances, Emma might be embarrassed to be called out like that, but she’s currently too busy watching with amusement how the very tips of Killian’s ears flush red in mortification to pay any attention to her own blush.)

“Yes, well, I could have lived without seeing this, thanks,” he argues back. “For the love of all things holy, could you get down from there? There are children about.”

“No.” Regina’s hands disappear for a second, and after a moment of uncomfortable-to-watch bucking, reappear with what must be Robin’s wallet. Drawing out a twenty dollar bill, she thrusts it in Emma and Killian’s direction, leaving Emma to bridge the gap to hurriedly snatch the bill and quickly put distance between herself and the new couple again. “Put that in your ridiculous make-out jar, if you have to. It should cover us for a while. Now, if you don’t mind?” Regina stares at them pointedly.

Emma gapes, mind trying to catch up to her ears and eyes, but finally lurches back into motion to grab her own bag and pull Killian out of the tiny room. A final glance back as she shuts the door again shows that Regina didn’t even wait that long to pounce.

“We’re just leaving them in there?” Killian sputters.

“Do you want to try and get in the middle of that?” Emma demands right back. “Listen, I’m choosing to believe that Robin won’t have sex anyplace that would jeopardize the light board settings. And after what we just walked in on, we deserve this twenty dollars more than the make-out jar does. Run while we still can or whatever.”

Killian stares at her like she’s grown a second head for a moment longer, but eventually releases the tension in his shoulders, shaking his head in resignation. “Fair enough, I suppose,” he concedes.

“Take the win. Now, let’s go find Henry before they remember which dressing rooms have comfortable chairs.”

———

All sights Killian never wanted to see aside - Gods, it’s already bad enough around here with Mary Margaret and Nolan without Regina and Robin adding their own two cents, not to mention the inappropriate choice of venue - he feels like he’s walking on air. Imagine, Emma Swan, asking  _ him _ to dinner! He’s grown so used to offering only gentle affection, hiding the strength of his feelings in respect of her wish back in October to keep things professional and friendly at most, that it’s the happiest shock to see her initiating in this way. Sure, it’s not a date, but their trip to the theatre wasn’t either. Killian’s grown to know Emma like an open book in the past nine months, and he knows she oftentimes needs a chance to wrap her head around an idea before diving in, and this is entirely in keeping with that mentality. Henry will be along anyways; Killian’s happy to have him, and loves the lad’s company, but it does by necessity preclude a proper date.

(Killian is more than happy to wait for whenever his Swan is ready, if she ever is; he’s always been a patient man.)

Henry is somewhat confused by Killian’s addition to his and his mother’s little dinner party, but happy about it all the same. “So wait, you’re getting dinner with us?” he asks, voice pitching up with his excitement.

“I thought I might. Is that okay with you?” Killian double checks.

“Oh yeah! That’s great! Just… why? No offense,” Henry hurries to clarify, face flashing with the temporary panic of the young and embarrassed. 

Killian shrugs in response. “No real reason, I suppose,” he says. “Your mother asked, and I thought it might be fun to tag along.”

And just like that, Henry accepts his words as truth. “Okay.” No more questions asked, just the happy innocence of youth gleefully accepting this latest development.

Killian, on the other hand, can’t help but dissect every possibility of what this might mean during the short subway ride to Granny’s. Is this a sign? Is Emma trying to indicate she wants more out of their relationship than just friendship? He just doesn’t know, and it’s enough to drive a man a little crazy.

Granny doesn’t help matters either when their little trio walks into her diner, fixing them with a look over the top of her glasses as she stands behind the lunch counter. “Is there something I should know?” she asks pointedly, causing Killian (and Emma too, he’s interested to note) to flush pink as Henry goes to claim a table ahead of them.

“Just getting some dinner, Granny,” Emma replies, her smile somewhat strained. “Unless meddling is all that’s on the menu today,” she mutters under her breath.

“I heard that, young lady!” Granny retorts, but still goes to help other customers, to both Killian and Emma’s relief. There’s a moment where both their eyes meet, communicating in the silence a mutual amusement and sense of  _ Why can’t they just let things be?  _ before Emma shakes her head fondly. At the end of the day, even if Granny tries to poke around in Emma’s business without her invitation, Killian knows the older woman is Emma’s family. He’d expect the same treatment from Liam if his older brother were inexplicably here. 

The rest of dinner is uneventful in the best of ways, spent in familiar banter and a liberal dose of teasing Henry. It seems the lad has developed something of a crush on the daughter of the show’s front of house manager, and Killian can’t help but remember familial teasing (if he dares think such a word as  _ familial _ in regards to the Swans and him) over a pretty girl as an adolescent rite of passage. Liam certainly partook enough when it was Killian’s turn. A little gentle ribbing won’t hurt the lad,  even if he blushes a brilliant red and groans loudly as he collapses into his folded arms on the table. 

(It doesn’t hurt either that Emma smiles at him conspiratorially the whole time as she adds her voice to the mix, only wavering when Killian swoops in to steal a French fry from her plate. Then, her face turns to a playful indignation, teasing him in the same way she did her son only moments before.)

It’s still not a date (probably) but it feels like progress, like Emma letting her walls down just enough for him to peer over, like  _ something.  _

And Killian can’t help but think, watching Emma playfully nudge her son in the side to try and get him to admit to his crush, that he’s more than happy with their little something. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at them. What a cute little budding family. This wasn't a chapter I planned on writing, but I think it'll work well as a transition into the next one, which is a BIG chapter. Can't wake for you to read it!
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful beta, @snidgetsafan, for dragging me through this. She makes it all better.
> 
> This will also be posted on tumblr tomorrow - I'm @shireness-says. Come say hi and give the old chapters some love.
> 
> Thanks for all your wonderful feedback! I love hearing from you guys - keep it up!
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I'll see you next week!


	18. Chapter 17: Major Award

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title take from "A Christmas Story: the Musical", which seems very appropriate for today. It's the leg lamp number, if you were curious. 
> 
> This is the very first chapter I wrote, almost two years ago (it has been revised and expanded since then, for the record), so I really hope you like it! This is what we were always building towards.
> 
> Enjoy!

The call comes early in the morning, far too early for Killian’s preference. By the time he hangs up, his entire life has changed yet again.

He’s been nominated for a Tony Award for his work on  _ Pride & Prejudice. _

———

Liam’s the first to call, only mere moments after the nominations are announced.

“This is so exciting, little brother!” he enthuses. “Best lead actor and best new musical as well!” Frankly, though Killian knows how monumental an event this is, he’d be a little more excited if he’d had some more sleep. The folks calling about nominations clearly didn’t have to perform in an evening show the night before, and it doesn’t help that Liam’s call eliminates any chance he might have had of falling back into dreamland. 

“I know, I know,” he replies through a yawn. “Very exciting.”

Liam plows right on ahead despite Killian’s less than subtle exhaustion. “Well, what kind of plans do you have? Do you need a recommendation of who to talk to about a suit? Are you going to take anyone to the awards, or just go stag?”

“Jeez, Liam, calm down. I don’t know yet. It’s barely sunk in yet and I’m too tired to think too hard,” he grumbles back. “I’ll let you know when I do.”

“Okay, well, I’m going to try to be in the city that day to support you,” Liam replies, sounding like he’s just deciding the matter as he talks it through. “Not that it’s pressure to bring me or anything, but I’d like to be there for you.”

“That sounds nice, Liam. Now will you please let me go so I can try and get back to sleep for a little longer?”

In actuality, he’s not entirely truthful with Liam; he knows exactly who he wants to ask along as his date, he’s just afraid of jinxing the whole matter before he can even ask. From the start, he knows he wants Emma to be there. He’s allowed a date, of course, and he can’t think of anyone he’d rather take. Beyond even just his own personal feelings of affection for Emma (oh hell, who is he kidding; his  _ love  _ for Emma), she deserves to be there more than anyone else. Swan has put so much effort into this production, so much of her very self. It seems wrong that she help create an award-worthy show and even execute it on national television - both their previous performance on  _ Sign Off _ and the upcoming number at the Tonys - only to be relegated back to the balcony. Killian won’t stand for that, not when he can do something about it.

(Anyways, who else would he bring? Emma’s the only woman he can imagine sharing this with.)

The asking is marginally easier this time at least, Killian’s confidence buoyed by their pair of maybe-dates and the increased closeness that’s followed. The nerves still jangle a little bit, but it’s easier to push them back down when he can remind himself of the good that’s come in the past from pulling himself together and just asking. True, it’s blown up in his face before as well, but that was before, back in October; they’ve come so far since then. Now, with months of evolution in their relationship and two almost-dates, he’s allowed to be cautiously optimistic. There’s precedent for that.

Emma turns as she hears him approach, a wide smile gracing her face when she sees it’s him. Killian can’t help the happy butterflies that erupt in his stomach at the sight. It would take a far stronger man than he to not be affected by Emma Swan’s smile. 

“Hey, congrats!” she says excitedly, lightly tapping him on the chest. “A lead actor nomination, that’s a big deal. Totally deserved, too.”

“Aye, well, I don’t think I’ll win, but it’s a real honor all the same,” he replies bashfully, his hand reaching for the nervous spot behind his ear before he attempts to deflect attention. “And congratulations to you as well! Best new musical, and we couldn’t have done it without your expertise.” The show had made out quite well, earning nods for Best Musical, Best Direction, Best Book, Best Costume Design, and Best Lighting Design. He can only imagine Robin’s reaction to that - if he knows anything about the man and his modesty, he was likely shocked. Belle and Regina additionally earned acting nods, bring the show’s total nominations to a neat eight.

His attempt to deflect attention doesn’t quite work, Emma looking at him strangely as her lovely smile turns into something more wry and skeptical. “I don’t know about that,” she cautions. 

Killian snorts; he can’t help it. “Have you seen the list of other nominees?” he asks. “Matthew Broderick is back on Broadway this year. I don’t stand a chance. Really, Swan, I’m truly honored just to be in that company. This is… so much more than I ever imagined.”

“Okay, just… make sure you write a speech, okay?” she warns. “Don’t write this off so much you don’t even take the possibility seriously. Promise me.”

It still seems so far-fetched, the idea of him winning the industry’s top award, but Swan asked this of him, so there’s only one real answer. “I promise, Swan.” As they’d talked, his nerves had abated, but now’s the moment. Clearing his throat helps keep them shoved down, deep down where they belong. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about a related matter,” he begins.

That catches Emma’s attention. “Yeah, shoot. What’s up?”

“Well, I… well, I wanted to ask if you wanted to be my date to the Tonys.” He resists the urge to equivocate his statement with a long list of qualifiers. If there’s one thing he regrets from their Assassins date, it’s immediately undercutting his own intentions - especially since he now suspects she would have welcomed treating their evening as a date. He won’t make that mistake again.

“Oh, you don’t have to, I’ll still get to see everything from up on the balcony,” she assures him, but Killian plows forward, determined to say his piece and state his reasoning.

“I promise, Swan, I’m not doing this out of some bizarre obligation. I genuinely can’t think of anyone I’d rather share the evening with. You deserve it, too, after all you’ve done for this production.”

Something in her face seems to soften as he speaks, melting her resistance away with it. “Well if you’re sure…” 

“I’m positive, Swan. I’m going to be a nervous wreck anyways, I’d appreciate the support,” he jokes. 

“Okay then,” Emma replies. Her voice has taken on an almost shy tone he’s not accustomed to hearing from his fierce Swan. “That’s… yeah. That sounds great. Thank you.”

“Great.” Inside, Killian’s practically jumping for joy, but he attempts to play it cool and still appear to be somewhat suave. “So I guess I’ll let you know more details as I know them?”

“Yeah, that sounds good. Sounds like a plan. Sounds… okay, yes. Please.” She’s adorable like this, flustered yet happy. He’s more used to flustered and stressed from his Swan. 

“Wonderful. I’ll see you later then,” he grins.

“Yeah I’ll see you later. I’m… looking forward to this. Thank you.”

“No one else I’d rather go with,” he assures her again as he walks away.

(She’s still smiling to herself when he looks back, so he counts that as a win.)

———

When Emma had agreed to be Jones’ Tony date, she’d been acting on instinct and desire and less on a well-thought-out analysis of the practicality of the matter. Technically, she’ll sort of be working that night, double checking everything and making sure her cast is all where they need to be and yes, she’s very well aware Radio City has their own crew, one that’s doubtless won awards or some shit, but it’ll be  _ her  _ cast performing something for  _ her _ production and as long as that’s the case, Emma’s going to be there in the midst of it all.

Still, she accepts because she  _ wants _ to be his date. There’s been so much of this back and forth, especially in the past month, and Emma’s finally ready for it to  _ go _ someplace and actually turn into something. She’s still nervous about falling into a relationship - maybe even falling in  _ love _ , as if she’s not already on her way there - but she’s semi-confident that if she just… takes that leap, she’ll finally get over her hangups and the nerves will melt away. The emotional equivalent of ripping off a bandaid, or something.

In the meantime, she’s got to find a dress.

The original plan, back when she’d be up on the balcony and no one would be paying attention to her too closely, was to wear one of the little black dresses lurking in the back of her closet. If Killian spotted her and was a little stunned by how fantastic she looked, all the better. But this? Going as the date of a major nominee? Her previous plans are out of the question.

Which is how, painful as it is, Emma finds herself shopping up and down Fifth Avenue on a dark Monday with Mary Margaret, Ruby, Belle, and Regina. 

(It’s not her worst nightmare, not really, but the longer this goes on, the closer it gets.)

“What about this one?” Mary Margaret asks, holding up some pastel blue monstrosity. Emma doesn’t even attempt to stifle her groan; it’s been almost five hours of this, and she doesn’t have the patience to pretend for the sake of harmony anymore.

“You don’t like it?” Her friend’s tone is somewhat hurt, everyone’s emotions running high after this whole ordeal. Emma does feel somewhat guilty about that; then again, Mary Margaret found her perfect dress, a dark pink floral concoction, what feels like ages ago, while Emma still can’t find something to fit her criteria.

“It’s so… blue,” she finally settles on in response. “It’s a lot.”

Mary Margaret’s forehead crinkles in confusion. “But you said blue would be fine!”

Regina shows up at the perfect time to roll her eyes, of course. It’s so perfectly…  _ Regina _ . “Yes, Mary Margaret, but she meant navy blue. Or another blue so dark it could pass for black. Not this ridiculous baby shower color. Not to mention the skirt is too big, she’ll be knocking things over backstage. We don’t need to be known as the cast that broke the Tony Awards. Here, try this,” she finishes, thrusting a different dress into Emma’s hands. 

Emma’s not trying to be difficult, really, it’s just… she has very specific requirements of her Tony’s dress. For better or for worse, the awards won’t be all fun and games; the cast will be performing, which means Emma will need to be checking things backstage and therefore need something she can actually move in that will blend in to the shadows like her regular work clothes would. Ideally, she’d find something that doesn’t make her look like an old widow either, or plunge so low as to mortify Henry. It’s a delicate balance of criteria she’s asking for, and so far, she hasn’t found anything that satisfies all her requirements. The other women have it easy, comparatively, being able to wear anything they want; Mary Margaret predictably squeals over anything tulle, and Belle and Regina will both honestly look good in almost anything. The world is their oyster or whatever.

Regina’s offering looks like it might have potential, though. Black, cap-sleeved, with a slim fit, it might actually be the winner. There are some sheer panels that Emma eyes skeptically, but Regina waves off her concern. 

“It’s not going to look like too much skin once you get it on,” she declares, “just a little visual interest. Now go, so we can maybe all get out of here and have some wine with dinner.”

Emma goes. When the queen demands it, what other choice do you have? 

Regina might be right, though; there’s something about this dress that suits Emma to a tee. The sheer panel at the stomach  _ isn’t  _ too revealing - barely revealing at all, if Emma’s being honest, and that’s just the way she likes it - but manages to keep the dress from making her look too old. The same sheer fabric extending from just below her knees to swish and sway helps too, and is short enough not to get in the way when Emma inevitably ditches her heels backstage while still hitting respectably around her ankles with heels on. She thinks that’s a thing now anyways, so extra points for being on-trend or something. 

In short, Emma loves it. It’s perfect. 

Exiting the dressing room to show her probably-too-invested friends, Emma studiously avoids thoughts about how bridal this outing feels - trying on scores of dresses, gleefully modeling for friends, waiting for  _ just  _ the right feeling, the whole thing. Romance may be in the air all over the place at their show, but it’s too soon for those thoughts where Emma is concerned. 

“Well?” she asks, holding her arms out wide as if inviting judgement.

She needn’t have made such a grand ceremony of things, honestly; Mary Margaret is already tearing up, and even Regina wears the slightest of smiles (though all the obvious approval she’ll offer is a decisive nod, the smug glint in her eye is all the evidence any of them need). 

“Oh, Emma,” Belle breathes, hands clasped to her chest. 

Emma smoothes the skirt one more time, more out of nervous energy than any real necessity. “Yeah?”

“Girl, you look  _ good _ ,” Ruby concurs. “Jones won’t know what hit him.”

Emma flushes at that. Knocking Killian’s socks off hadn’t been on her list of requirements, but truthfully, she likes the idea of it. Thankfully, the other women are too distracted by the dress to make any comments about the state of her face. 

“You look  _ beautiful,  _ Emma,” Mary Margaret whispers. How she manages to speak past the stopper of emotion that must be in her throat if those brimming eyes are any indication is beyond Emma. 

“Thanks, M’s,” she mumbles, fighting against the urge to look down at her feet and losing piteously. 

“So this is the one, right?” Ruby demands. 

When Emma lifts her gaze again, it’s to find her four friends watching expectantly for her own reaction. It’s one of those moments she’s come to be more used to in the years since coming to New York and finding a family - a feeling of contentment, a feeling of  _ belonging _ . 

Emma finally cracks a smile. “Yeah, this is the one.” 

“Oh thank God,” Regina declares before Mary Margaret can even start squealing. “I don’t think I could have managed another store. Bag it up and pay and let’s go drink instead.”

——— 

The day of the Tonys rushes by in a blur. Thankfully, most of Broadway has gone dark in recognition of the awards that evening. Still, Emma has to be up and moving by eight that morning – earlier than she likes on a typical day off – in order to get breakfast for Henry before she ushers him off to a friend’s house by 9:30. Then she just has time to shower and shave before Mary Margaret shows up at her door to drag her off for a manicure and pedicure, sweeping Elsa along with them when she pokes her head outside her door to see what the ruckus is. Again, despite Mary Margaret’s best efforts to talk her into a bright red color, Emma instead chooses a basic silvery shade with black detailing (Mary Margaret, of course, goes for gold with more glitter than Emma ever thought possible to attach). They barely have time for a slightly late lunch at Granny’s - thank God for that woman and her burgers – before Emma’s expected at Ruby’s to try and tame her hair into something resembling elegance that will still hold up to the hair-killers that are headsets. She has no idea what her friend does - it’s hard to focus on the method when Ruby’s talking a mile a minute - but at the end of it, her hair is back in a messy bun with curled tendrils on the side that somehow still looks sleek. 

“Knock ‘em dead,” Ruby grins before Emma rushes back out the door, back to her own place to meet Henry before it’s over to Elsa’s to wiggle into her dress. It feels a little like she’s got an army of mothers all wanting to see her off to the prom - a disconcerting feeling, since Emma never had a prom to go to or a mother to send her. Ruby will be at the awards later, too, but up on the balcony “with the rest of the peons”, as she so delicately puts it. She’ll doubtless have more fun without the cameras scanning in her direction for reaction shots.

Emma had made sure to take a moment to herself after she got dressed, just to appreciate the final product and reflect on what’s yet to come tonight. She’s not  _ nervous _ , exactly, but there’s a feeling of anticipation brewing within her. This is one of those nights where it feels like everything’s about to change, and for once, she’s ready for it. Whatever the night might bring, she’s ready to dive in head first. 

If the wait doesn’t kill her, that is.

“Stop fidgeting,” Elsa chides, barely turning her head away from the renovation show she’s watching on TV. That’s warranted, honestly; Killian and crew are due any minute now, and she’s jiggling her knees like mad in an attempt to work off some nervous energy. From what Emma understands, she’s the last stop before a pre-awards dinner. Elsa had been kind enough to offer to watch both Henry and little Roland Loxley, so Emma and Killian will be carpooling with Regina and Robin while Belle, Will, Mary Margaret, David, and Ruby will meet them at the restaurant. In the meantime, her neighbor seems to have taken calming Emma down as her sole job.

“He’ll be here, Emma,” Elsa says again in a long-suffering tone. Emma even thinks she spots an eye roll. Thankfully for Elsa, the waited-for chime at the door sounds, and Emma quickly crosses the room to buzz them up instead of retorting. It’s not worth it anyways, especially when the solution to her anxiety has arrived.

She won’t get all cheesy and say that it’s all worth it for the moment she opens the apartment door to reveal Killian, but she will admit that his look of awe finally settles the nervous swarm of butterflies in her stomach. Emma finally breaks into a grin at his expression.

“Swan, you look  _ stunning _ ,” he breathes. He looks like he’s just trying to take it all in, mouth still slightly agape though the edges are turning up towards a smile. 

Emma can’t help but smile right back, swaying a little to make the skirt swish around her ankles. This is the girliest she’s felt in ages, maybe ever, even counting all of Mary Margaret’s attempts over the years. No one would blame her for wanting to revel in that a little bit. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “This is…  _ wow _ .” Emma’s never seen him at a loss for words before; she kinda likes it, truth be told. 

“Yes, yes, you look lovely, Emma,” sounds Liam’s voice, “now can we please stop obstructing the doorway?”

Killian guiltily steps aside to let his brother pass, the older Jones’ face displaying pure amusement at the spectacle. 

Emma crinkles her brow in confusion; of all the things she was expecting tonight, Liam Jones wasn’t one of them. Killian is no help either, looking a little put out about his brother’s interruption, while Robin is preoccupied herding his son inside with all his assorted stuff. 

“What are you doing here, Liam?” she asks as he works his way inside and it becomes obvious no one else is going to offer up any explanation.

Liam grins back at her, a sly thing reminiscent of looks Killian has given her. Emma can’t help but wonder idly which brother got that from the other. “Well, I have it on good information that the lovely Elsa has been deemed the adult supervision for tonight. And  _ I,  _ for one, need an awful lot of supervising,” he replies faux-seriously before shooting Emma a cheeky wink. 

“Jeez, Liam,” Killian groans, though Emma laughs. It’d be hard not to, watching the dynamic between the two brothers; Liam sports a grin like he’s just told the greatest joke ever, and Killian’s ears have flushed an alarming shade of crimson. 

(Emma’s starting to seriously wonder if this isn’t actually an adult version of prom, complete with familial embarrassment and teasing.)

“Try not to scar my kid too much, okay?” she teases back. “We’re trying to keep the future therapy bills down as much as we can.”

Liam laughs at that. “Yes ma’am.”

“Can we go now, please?” Killian cuts back in. “I’d like to see and hear as little of this as possible.”

Thankfully, Emma had been fully ready to leave by the time the buzzer called, her clutch already waiting on the hallway table in all its impractical glory. 

“Have fun!” Elsa calls from her perch on the couch. The other Jones has already seated himself right next to her; Emma thinks her friend might be in for a fun night herself. 

“Yeah, Mom, good luck!” Henry adds, charging across the room to give her a final hug. “We’ll watch for you on tv!”

“Thanks, kid. We’ll watch the recording later and trade recaps, I promise.” Though she wants to press a kiss into her son’s hair like she usually does, Emma remembers her lipstick at the last moment and settles for a tighter hug instead. 

“Deal,” he smiles. “Now go! Bye!”

And just like that, with Killian’s hand on her back gently steering her out the door, they’re off. 

———

He can barely pay attention all through dinner - some very fancy French restaurant that Mary Margaret had been eager to try - so distracted is he by the sight of Emma in that dress. She’s beautiful, he’s always known that, but tonight she embodies a kind of effortless glamour that takes it to a whole new level. He’s enchanted, well and truly. No living creature would blame him for it.

The world abruptly snaps back into focus as they approach Radio City Music Hall, however. Somehow, he’d rather blocked out of his mind what a production just getting into the theater would be - there’s press everywhere, not to mention the fans, all shouting and making a ruckus. He’s not particularly looking forward to it - he’s grown more used to dealing with fans after months of them clustering at the stage door, though reporters still make him a bit nervous - but he’ll muddle through. He has before, and he’ll do it again.

Emma on the other hand… she hasn’t had to deal with all this before, probably didn’t factor it into her decision, and is visibly nervous, fiddling with her hands in her lap. Killian has the strongest urge to reassure her, to tell her it’s going to be okay, to make it  _ better _ the way she’s helped him, but they’re pulling up to the red carpet and there’s no  _ time _ .

The lights are even brighter when someone opens the door from the outside. Taking a deep breath, Killian braces himself to step into the madness. Once he gets his feet back on solid ground, he extends a hand back into the car’s interior to help Emma out.

She still looks wary of everything as she places her hand in his, but Killian does his best to offer a reassuring smile. “I’ve got you, love,” he says, just loud enough to be heard. He means it in a more overarching, permanent way than just this temporary assistance out of the vehicle; he’s here in the grand scheme of things, ready to back her up and make her feel happy and comfortable in this and all other things, if she’ll let him.

She must sense it too, at least where the journalistic trial facing them is concerned, as some of the tension she’d been carrying in her shoulders releases. Once Emma’s steady on her heels, he carefully tucks her hand into his elbow to begin what must be the longest walk of his life to date.

Making matters worse, it seems like all of the questions called in his direction are about Emma, wanting to know who she is, if she’s his girlfriend… probably, he should have expected it, but it’s still enough to tinge the tips of his ears red in embarrassment. 

He’d hoped the network’s red carpet reporter would be a little more restrained, but no such luck there. The perky presenter barely makes the prerequisite introduction, identifying which show Killian’s with, before it’s right into the interrogation.

“Now the woman accompanying you tonight, she’s your…” the other woman trails off.

And again, if Killian had thought things through, he would have known to prep answers to these kind of questions, but all he thought was  _ I want Swan by my side _ and figured it would all be fine from there. Beside him, Emma’s blanched at the question, but she also looks at him in anticipation, not the panic he would have expected. Quickly, Killian forces himself to put together an answer.

“Emma’s a colleague, one of our crew members on  _ Pride & Prejudice _ ,” he manages to work out, smiling in what he hopes is a charming way and not a nervous one. “We all thought she deserved a better seat than what she’d get otherwise, and I’m just the lucky fellow who gets to escort her.”

The whole thing sounds fishy to him, but the interviewer seems to take it at face value, moving on to more generic questions about what label he’s wearing and which performances he’s looking forward to in the awards. They’re finally allowed to escape when the woman catches sight of a more interesting celebrity, and then it’s home free. Killian can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief as they enter the building proper.

“I’m so sorry about that,” Killian tells Emma, infusing the apology with every bit of sincerity he feels. “I know that was a lot, but please believe me when I say that that I honestly forgot we’d have to go through that — ”

“Jones, it’s fine,” she replies, smiling despite the ordeal they’d just waded through. “It was… yeah, it was a lot, but I survived, right? And it’ll make the performance later seem easy in comparison,” she teases.

Still, Killian presses. He’ll never forgive himself if it turns out he unknowingly threw her to the wolves. “Are you sure?”

“ _ Yes, _ Killian, I’m fine. I’m a big girl.” Emma rolls her eyes at his fussing, but he can tell it’s affectionate, which softens the blow. “Now, I heard you promising to escort me to my seat out there, are you going to follow through?”

“It’d be an honor, my lady.”

——— 

Of course, the whole thing goes off without a hitch.

Lin-Manuel Miranda delivers an opening musical monologue that makes it seem like he was born to host, the other performances are fantastic, and their own number – after much debate, they had settled on a medley of ball scenes – runs as smooth as butter.

(Though she’s sure she made quite the picture - running around backstage in her evening gown and favorite black moccasins from Henry makes for quite the spectacle, especially with a fleece North Face jacket on top of the whole ensemble and one of Radio City’s phenomenal wireless headsets to complete the look  - she also can’t help but notice the way Killian’s eyes still followed her, even like that. Emma may look absolutely ridiculous in that mismash of practicality and fashion, but the look on his face is invariably one of awe, like she’s the most stunning thing he’s ever seen.)

(Still, she’s not sure she’s ever been so jealous as when she spots Mulan in a tailored tuxedo ensemble and velvet oxford shoes.)

The show has made out remarkably well at the awards – so far Ms. Blue has won for best costuming, and the cheer that goes up from their row and on the balcony when Robin is announced for best lighting design is truly something to behold. Regina loses out to a more experienced veteran – “It’s fine, Lord knows I’ve got more time to win another than she does”  - but Belle takes the lead actress trophy and delivers a lovely speech about the importance of arts education. And finally they’re just waiting to hear about Killian before moving onto the top awards.

He’s gotten more nervous as the time comes closer, nervously jiggling his knee and fiddling with his program. Yes, it’s slowly driving Emma crazy, but she also feels for the poor guy and wants to make him feel better, even if just for a moment. 

“Hey, it’s going to be ok, either way,” she whispers in his ear, simultaneously reaching over to take his hand. “You’re going to be fine.”

Killian only offers her a weak smile in return, but the knee-jiggling does slow its pace, so she’ll take that as a win. He’s still allowed his nerves.

As some television actress Emma barely recognizes laughs her way through an introduction, his grip grows tighter and tighter, especially as they begin to introduce the nominees. She knows he doesn’t think there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of him winning, but she still thinks he might be surprised. Regardless of what happens, she’s happy to be here, holding Killian’s hand and trying to help him through his nerves.

“And the Tony award for best performance by a leading actor in a musical goes to – “

Emma’s not sure he’s breathing anymore, waiting for the results to come out of that envelope – 

“ – Killian Jones,  _ Pride and Prejudice _ !”

\------

As he climbs the stage to accept the Tony, she can see his hands shake, and she can’t help but think it’s endearing how adorably nervous he still is, even now that he knows he’s won. It takes everything she has not to snort when she sees Killian nearly run a hand through his hair before he abruptly remembers that he’s gelled up from here to next week in an effort to look professional; personally, she doesn’t think he needed it, and rather likes the way his hair naturally lays, but she suspects Liam might have had something to do with the hair product. It seems like a big brother thing to do. Thankfully, Killian pulls a notecard out of his pocket with his speech on it instead. The maneuver may take multiple tries with the way his hand is slightly shaking, but at least he’s not winging it. 

“Oh gods… I know it’s such a cliché to come up here and say I never expected to win, but in a year when Matthew Broderick is back on Broadway, I really never expected this!” 

The audience laughs at that, and whether it’s simply polite or actually genuine, their response seems to loosen him up a bit and allow him to relax, like he was waiting for permission.

“I would, of course, like to thank my brother, Liam, along with all the usual suspects – our wonderful director, Mr. Merlin Lemage, the producers and design staff, this phenomenal cast, and especially my partner in crime, the lovely and charming Belle French -”

(Emma can just imagine the cameras cutting away to catch Belle’s proud smile; it’s what she’d do, at least.)

“ – But I’d especially like to take this moment to thank the people in the theater who don’t get nearly enough recognition. The truth of the matter is that a seamless crew is necessary for any good production, but sadly, they usually don’t get acknowledged unless they’ve mucked something up. So, without further ado, thank you to our hardworking front-of-house staff, led by the ever-patient Jefferson Madigan. Thank you to Robin Loxley on the light board for keeping us illuminated and Kristoff Anderssen on the sound board for keeping us audible. Thank you to Will Scarlet for managing our fly system, and a definite thank you to our tireless ASMs, Dorothy Gale and Mulan Fa, for making sure the show is running smoothly. A huge thanks to Ruby Lucas, our wig designer and assistant costumer for disabusing me of any British modesty I may have retained during those quick changes –“ (that one gets a surprisingly large laugh) “ – But most of all, the largest of thanks to our fearless leader, the best stage manager I’ve had the privilege to work with, Emma Swan. Not only does she run an incredibly tight ship, but she’s an amazing human being to boot and was the one who insisted that I should have a speech prepared tonight, just in case. You’re a godsend, love.” He pauses a moment – to take a breath? To let the moment sink in with the audience? Just to search out her face in the crowd? Whatever the case, he smiles when their eyes meet, before continuing on over the sound of applause.

“So please, everyone, from the smallest community or high school theater to one of these big Broadway shows, go thank your crew! They deserve it, more than I have time to express. Thank you all, so very much!”

And with that, he holds up his award, grins, and allows himself to be led off stage as the audience continues their applause.

Killian may get to leave the stage, but Emma’s left in the audience, digesting what just happened. Killian had the stage, could say anything to the audience and the nation, and took that time to thank her, to validate her work and her chosen profession. Even after she has kept him at arm’s length on so many occasions, he has continued to value her, and wanted to make everyone else think she’s just as wonderful as he’s convinced she is. She’s known how he feels about her for a long time, but this is just more proof of that. Suddenly, her walls and resistance and insistence on holding back seem so silly; Killian is all in, and Emma can’t wait to tell him that she’s caught up, probably did so long before she could admit it.

After several minutes, he finally makes his way back to his seat beside her, and Emma has so much to say that she can’t possibly turn it into words. So she settles for smiling and nodding when he meets her eyes as she tries not to break down into a crying mess. He must understand thought – just as he always does – because he reaches over to take her hand, bringing it to his lips to press a gentle kiss on the back.

He seems somewhat surprised when Emma threads her fingers through his; they’ll have to work on that. She knows now is not the moment, here in the middle of an awards show, but as Emma smiles at Killian with misty eyes, she knows she’s ready to take that leap. After all, she knows he’ll always catch her.

That’s a matter for later, however, when all the current hoopla is through. For now, Emma allows herself to lean into Killian’s arm and hold his hand just a little tighter as she counts the minutes until she can finally act on all the feelings rushing through her heart.

(If she can only make it through, it will be worth every second.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise you'll get that kiss next chapter! Emma's finally ready for all that would entail. As far as my choice of Tony's host goes, I'm fully convinced that the only reason Lin-Manuel Miranda hasn't hosted yet is scheduling conflicts. Fight me. It's my fictional awards, so dream big, right?
> 
> Super thanks to @snidgetsafan, who beta-ed this last minute. Sorry to spring that on you, babe.
> 
> Also posted on tumblr - I'm @shireness-says. Go leave your reactions there!
> 
> I love hearing from you guys - I'm excited to see your reactions to this chapter!
> 
> I hope you liked this, and I can't wait to share next week's chapter with you!


	19. Chapter 18: Song of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late, guys - my stash of completed chapters finally ran out! The good news is I still anticipate being able to post the epilogue next Monday. That's right, guys, it's almost over!
> 
> Chapter title taken from "Once Upon a Mattress".
> 
> Enjoy!

Somehow, Emma’s hand doesn’t leave Killian’s for the rest of the night. Well, that’s not strictly true; they separate their palms to clap, as is required by an awards show, but their hands keep wandering back together afterwards. It’s becoming an unconscious gesture, but truthfully, Emma doesn’t really have a problem with that. It’s… comfortable isn’t quite the word - that’s somehow too small to describe it. It’s natural, she supposes, like something they were always meant to do. Maybe they were; maybe her resistance was the only thing holding them back. Regardless, she appreciates the comfort and support the gentle pressure of his hand provides. 

She needs the support, too, as the surprises keep on coming. Somehow, in all the emotions involved with Killian’s win, she’d forgotten that the production was up for Best Musical until there’s a call for everyone to return to their seats for that award after a break for commercials. Emma’s already seated; that’s not the problem. The problem is a sudden flash of awareness that with two acting wins and a series of technical awards, they’ve really got a chance. And God only knows what will happen then.

“Buck up, Swan,” Killian whispers in her ear as the announcer begins speaking. That phrase has always kind of grated on Emma’s nerves, truth be told, but when she turns to glare at him, Killian’s already grinning and waggling his eyebrows in that way she knows means he’s teasing. Maybe he already knows that about her too; the things he remembers about her always surprise Emma. Regardless, though she rolls her eyes at his antics, some of the tension eases out of her shoulders while the corners of her mouth tease at a smile. That last part wasn’t intentional, but that seems to just be the effect Killian has on her lately. 

(She’s already half in love with him, Emma knows, and that might be part of it too. God, there’s so much she needs to say to him once this is over, so much she wants to  _ do  _ to him.)

Still, it’s a good thing she’s got a good grip on Killian, because she needs that grounding when  _ Pride & Prejudice  _ is announced as the winner. She hears the words, knows what they mean, but that doesn’t help her brain process the declaration at all. The applause is so loud and this means - well this means  _ everything  _ to Emma: professionally, emotionally, possibly spiritually if the actualizing of all of Mary Margaret’s hope speeches can be counted as Emma’s religion. It’s hard in the moment for her mind to wrap itself around the fact that they’ve won, that she’s part of the team responsible for a Tony Award winning show. 

Emma’s on autopilot when she stands up to let Mary Margaret and David through to reach the stage, but Killian tugs her out into the aisle instead.

“Aren’t you coming, Swan?” he grins, his intent obvious.

“Oh, I don’t know —” Emma demurs, but Killian is already tugging her up the aisle. 

“It’s your baby too,” he whispers as they reach the stairs up to the stage, carefully handing her onto the first steps so she doesn’t trip. He has a point. After his lovely speech, too, it seems stupid not to just get up there and bask in the applause for a few moments.

Merlin gives the acceptance speech, but honestly, Emma doesn’t hear most of it. The lights are so bright and the ambient noise of the crowd so much louder than she anticipated that it’s overwhelming. Emma’s never been more glad that her job is in the shadows and the corners of the theater most people will never see, if only to avoid the hundreds of intense stares in her direction. It feels that way, at least, even if Emma consciously knows they’re just looking at the stage in general, and most likely at Merlin at the microphone. Still, it’s mildly terrifying, and Emma’s grateful for the gentle pressure of Killian’s hand on her back.

The real benefit of winning the last award of the night - besides the obvious perk of, you know,  _ winning _ \- is that all those gathered on stage for the acceptance speech get ushered off into the wings and towards the press, avoiding the masses all trying to file out down Radio City’s aisles. Merlin’s speech may have been one of the shortest of the night or one of the longest - Emma doesn’t really know for sure, far too preoccupied with trying to process the significance of the moment - but the crowd roars its applause again as the play-off music swells and Killian starts to gently steer her offstage. Emma doesn’t mind, she’s fine to go; there’s so much going on that it’s kind of nice to have someone else to direct her.

They’re barely clear of exiting cast, crew and producers before Killian’s excitement bubbles over and he sweeps Emma off her feet, whooping and twirling around in a circle. It must look very dramatic, well suited to the venue. His Best Actor trophy digs a little into her back, and Emma knows he’d be deeply apologetic if she complained, but truthfully, she’s too caught up in the joy of the moment to care overly much.

“Can you believe it, Swan?” he asks with a smile stretching from ear to ear, before continuing without waiting for an answer. “God, this is all just…  _ Gods. _ ”

“I know!” Emma laughs. Maybe to anyone else his sentence wouldn’t have made sense, but she hears enough of the surprise and pride and pure  _ elation _ to know that she shares the sentiment, even if neither one of them can quite put it into words. 

“We couldn’t have done it without you, you know,” he says, purposefully making eye contact to drive home his point, though he still smiles like a happy maniac. “I wasn’t kidding, this is your baby too. No one deserved to be on that stage more than you.”

Emma’s stomach suddenly flips. She’s wanted to talk to Killian since his touching speech, but now she’s struck with nerves. This is the moment though, even if there are still people milling about. Looking at his joy, however, restores some of her calm. It’s miraculous how much his smile can achieve.

“Speaking of,” she starts, “I just wanted to say — ”

Before she can get any further, her phone starts buzzing insistently in her handbag. It’s undoubtedly Henry; God, she loves her kid, but his timing really needs work. Groaning, she retrieves the device from her purse, noting that it is indeed her son. “Sorry, I’ve just got — ” she starts to explain.

“Not to worry, love,” Killian replies genially, his face settling into a fond expression. Emma’s not sure whether it’s affection for herself or for Henry or for both, but she loves that expression regardless, and all that it signifies.

She’s barely connected the call before Henry begins shrieking on the other end, so loud that she has to keep the phone pulled back from her ear and Killian laughs. “You won! You won, you won, you won!” Henry cheers. Emma can practically picture him in her mind’s eye, bouncing around Elsa’s living room in his excitement.

“Yeah, we did, kid,” Emma laughs right back once she can finally get the phone safely near her ear. “How do you feel about that? I can’t tell,” she teases. Killian’s being directed towards where the press awaits by an insistent theater employee as she talks, the moment she thought she’d grasped slipping even further away.  _ I’ll be back _ , he mouths, quickly tossing up a hand in a little wave.

Meanwhile, Henry continues on the other end of the phone call. “This is so  _ cool _ !” he gushes. “Did you touch the statue? Can you bring it home so I can show all my friends? Is there, like, a certificate too or something?”

“Slow down, kid,” Emma says, but it’s probably a lost cause. Emma doesn’t blame him; this is a big moment, and she’d probably be doing the same thing in his shoes. “Killian let me hold his earlier, but I haven’t touched the show award yet. I don’t know what will happen with the show statue, but I bet it will be at the theater for your friends to come see. Otherwise maybe Robin or Killian will let us borrow theirs. I don’t actually know if there’s a certificate, but I can probably find out.”

“Is Killian there? Can I talk to him? Liam wants to talk to him too.” Emma can’t help but smile fondly as she remembers Henry’s starstruck reaction to Liam Jones only a few months ago; now, you’d never know. That’s her son, though, ready and determined to make friends with everyone that crosses his path.

“Killian is actually doing press stuff right now, but I’ll make sure he calls his brother later. Now in the meantime… don’t you have your last Monday of school tomorrow? I think it’s time for bed.” 

“ _ Mom _ ,” Henry whines, but Emma won’t be swayed. It is approaching 11:30 pm after all; he’s only been allowed to stay up this long because it’s a special occasion.

“Nope, none of that,” she chides back. “Go get ready for bed, we’ll do the full recap tomorrow. I bet you’ll realize how tired you are when you crawl under the covers.”

“Fine,” he huffs. “But you’d better tell me everything.”

“I promise. Love you, kiddo.”

“Love you too, Mom. I’m happy you won.”

“Thanks, Henry. I am too.”

——— 

Killian’s probably less chatty in his interviews than the red carpet reporters would prefer - not to mention the show’s publicity department - but he’s too anxious to find Emma again to bother with more. She’d had a look on her face right before Henry called, one that said she was about to say something significant, and he’s itching to know what it was. He’d bet money it was about his speech, but he’s got less of a guess about what she’d have to say on the subject. He hopes it would be a thank you - not because he did it for the gratitude, but because that would mean she has accepted that her own role deserves thanking and attention and recognition, accepted that she plays an integral role not just anyone could fill. If her initial reluctance to join everyone onstage to accept the award for Best New Musical is any indication, though, he’s afraid that might not be the case. 

By the time he makes it through press, she’s already waiting for the cars with the rest of their group except Belle, who must still be making her way through the crowds herself. It seems slightly ridiculous to Killian that they’re driving the few blocks instead of just walking ten minutes to the Plaza for the official afterparty, but then again, he’s not the one wearing high heels. They would have looked a little absurd walking down the messy streets of New York in their formal wear anyways.

“Hey, you survived the masses,” Emma teases. He wants to know what she was going to say, demand she continue right now, but Killian knows it’s not the right moment; not here, in front of all their friends. 

“I did,” he replies instead, smiling at Emma. With those lovely heels she’s got on, it’s less of a downwards motion tonight; they’re almost level in height, though he’s still got an inch or two on her. “Not to jinx myself, but I think I may actually be getting the hang of this public speaking thing.”

Emma snorts at that. “Yeah, that’s what the statue says,” she replies dryly, though the smile creases around her eyes and mouth say that she knew he meant the interviews, not the acting. “You should call your brother, by the way.”

“I will once we get into the car,” he promises. “Less noise that way.”

As if summoned by magic, the first of the SUVs appears just then, pulling up to the curb. The idea of getting out of this mass of people - or at least getting to the next mass of people who will inevitably be waiting in front of the Plaza for pictures before they enter the afterparty - is appealing, but Killian also doesn’t want to leave the rest of their party behind. Belle’s still working her way through the press line, the bright flowers of her yellow dress only just visible when Killian turns back to look, and God only knows how long it will take for her to break free. It feels rude to abandon Will, Mary Margaret, and David, just because his own ride is here and waiting.

He should have counted on Mary Margaret having other ideas though. “Go,” she smiles, “I can tell you’re ready to get out of here.”

“We’re fine waiting, it’s really not a big deal,” Killian tries to protest - albeit weakly - but Mary Margaret just waves him off in a little shooing motion.

“We’ll be fine, I promise,” she assures him.

“It’s really best not to argue with her,” Emma sighs, though there’s obvious affection in her voice. “Mary Margaret may look sweet, but she gets her way in the end.”

And really, who is he to argue with that? Especially if it would be pointless anyways. 

Killian gladly hands Emma up into the interior of the SUV, clambering up after her and trying not to step on her dress as they squeeze into the very back row, Regina and Robin climbing in right after. Emma slips out of those lovely heels as soon as she’s seated, letting out a borderline inappropriate groan of relief as her toes and arches are freed from the contortions they’ve been forced into. Killian doesn’t blame her for that - even if they’ll be in the car for less than ten minutes, he’s sure every one of them feels heavenly.

(It’s a little hard to concentrate when she makes those noises, though.)

“God, that feels good,” she sighs. It doesn’t help matters in the least. His face must make quite the picture, as Emma huffs a little laugh in the back of her throat when she looks in his direction, her mouth quirking up at the corners in a poorly-suppressed smile. “Are you going to call Liam?”

It takes an embarrassing moment for the words to process, and Killian has to actually shake his head to settle his thoughts back into order. Well done, Killian. “Yes, yes, of course. Thank you. I’ll do that now.”

Liam picks up on the first ring, which makes Killian think he was just waiting for the call. “Congratulations, brother!” 

“Thanks, Liam,” he replies bashfully. It’ll take some getting used to, hearing all the congratulations for his work, but it’s something Killian thinks that he could get used to. Not that there’s much of a choice there - as long as he’s got this statue, there will now be people applauding his having received it. “Were you able to see everything on TV?” It’s admittedly a stupid question, but it will hopefully turn the conversation back away from him. In the adjacent seat, Emma rolls her eyes like she knows exactly what he’s doing. She probably does, frankly.

So does Liam, unfortunately. “Yes we were, but this isn’t about me, Killy,” his older brother reminds him. “Now tell me, how does it feel to have won?”

“It feels pretty damn fantastic,” Killian admits. It’s the first time he’s said that and really  _ meant _ it; with the press, it was just convenient words to say, and the ones they wanted to hear anyways. No one wants to hear a celebrity try to work through their muddled feelings on the red carpet when anyone else would be immediately thrilled.

“It’s well deserved, Brother, I promise. How’d Emma react to that speech?”

Killian has to force himself not to look in Emma’s direction at the question, needlessly paranoid it would give something away. “Don’t know.”

“She’s sitting right there, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Well get back to her, get back to her!” Liam urges. “If that speech didn’t impress her, she’s crazy, and Emma Swan doesn’t strike me as crazy.”

“Oh my God, shut up, Liam,” Killian hisses into the phone. Emma’s quietly chuckling next to him; at least someone is enjoying this. “Go back to your date or whatever, I’ll talk to you later.”

“It is not a date — ” his brother starts to protest, but Killian disconnects the call before Liam can take the excuse any further. 

“Liam pulling your pigtails?” Emma asks.

“He’s a piece of work,” Killian grumbles right back, much to Emma’s amusement as she lets out another peal of laughter. That gets him to smile at least; she’s always been able to do it, like a special superpower.

“He loves you,” she points out, and well, that’s true too.

“Yeah. I know he does.”

As if on cue, Killian’s phone buzzes inside his jacket’s breast pocket.

_ I’m proud of you, Kil. Have a great time with your girl. _

Any lingering annoyance with Liam melts away immediately. That’s all he’s ever wanted, after all, ever since he was a little kid: to make his brother proud. Liam’s always been his hero, so that’s the highest compliment that can be paid to him.

Killian tucks his phone away with a new sense of peace and happiness about him, conveniently just as the car pulls up to the hotel.

“You ready for more?” Emma asks, bending nearly in half to secure her stilettos once again.

He’d rather have that conversation with Emma, but it’s still not the moment for that, not with a crowd of people waiting for him to make an appearance. For now, they’re just here for a celebration. As such, there’s really only one answer to her question.

“Lead on, Swan.” 

——— 

She probably should have figured that the afterparty would be boring. After all, the executives aren’t exactly known for being a rolicking good time. That’s the actors.

It’s not awful, it’s just kind of… bland. The music is perfectly acceptable, but no one wants to dance. The food is fine, but not exceptional. It honestly seems like most of the money has been spent on decorations, and whatever trendy vibe they were going for manages to clash spectacularly with the staid, old money aesthetic that exemplifies the Plaza Hotel.

There are highlights too, of course - namely the way Killian sticks by her side like glue all night, one hand always tangled in her fingers or wrapped around her waist. Whenever their eyes meet, Killian seems on guard, like he’s waiting for her to tell him to stop, but Emma never does. She never wants to. So instead, she just smiles, and turns back to the party.

The people make up for it, somewhat. Her own little crew keeps her smiling and laughing, and at a party like this, there’s plenty of famous faces around who all seem to want to congratulate Killian. It starts feeling like a bizarre fever dream, meeting all these celebrities she usually only sees in magazines. Everyone is perfectly nice, of course - Emma’s particularly happy to discover that Lin-Manuel Miranda really  _ is _ the friendliest man alive, and tries not to geek out too much when Matthew Broderick comes up to graciously congratulate the man who beat him and ends up  _ shaking her hand _ like it’s a totally normal thing to do and not one of the highlights of Emma’s life.

Killian’s off getting them drinks when Merlin sidles up beside Emma. “Hey, congratulations!” she says as soon as she notices him; in addition to accepting the award for Best Musical on their behalf, he’d also been recognized for his directing.

“And you as well!” he wishes her in return with a wide smile on his face. This just might be the happiest Emma has ever seen him. It’s a little odd to see her director in such a celebratory mood - though Merlin is certainly enthusiastic and generally happy, this is something else altogether. 

Still, Emma’s not sure she deserves his congratulations. “I don’t know about that,” she hedges with a smile on her face, not outright rejecting the sentiment but not fully embracing it either.

That visibly perturbs Merlin, a little serious frown etching itself onto his mouth. “I’m not sure you’re aware of exactly how indispensable a role you’ve played, Emma. It takes a certain kind of person to not just do your job, but do it  _ well _ . And with the way you anticipate problems, you’re possibly the best I’ve worked with,” he states confidently, heedless of the blush spreading across her cheeks. “Anyhow, what’s the saying? It takes a village? I think that could be applied to a show as well. And you’ve done a lot to keep the villagers from running around in circles like madmen,” Merlin confides, chuckling a little at his own joke. 

Emma’s never been good at accepting praise, probably due to lack of opportunity in her youth, but it still means something to hear that from her director, her  _ boss.  _ “Thanks. That, uh… that means a lot,” she finally settles on. 

“I speak only the truth,” Merlin replies. “Now, I know this is a ways out - several years, most likely - but a friend of mine is working on a new musical, a madcap murder caper. I don’t suppose you’d be interested? Availability permitting, of course, and we’d discuss it further once things became definite, but I think we’ve made a good team.”

Emma remembers Robin’s words from all those months ago, about how directors like to work with an established team. Now that it seems like that may actually be developing, she’ll have to thank him for his wisdom and encouragement. “I’d love that. Keep me in the loop.”

“Excellent. I’ll let you get back to your date,” he excuses as Killian returns with a pair of champagne flutes, “but really, congratulations. It’s been such a pleasure working together.”

Emma flushes an even deeper pink as Merlin walks away, but there’s a grin there too. 

“Good news?” Killian asks as he hands her a drink. 

Emma laughs a little, mostly to herself, before quipping, “I think I might have made it, kid.”

“I never had a doubt.”

———

They somehow end up in Granny’s diner at the end of the night. It’d probably been inevitable, really; it seems like so many of his and Emma’s milestones along the way to where they are now - wherever they are - have happened in that restaurant. It doesn’t hurt either that the food at the official afterparty is boring buffet fare, and Granny’s is open 24 hours. The lady herself has long since gone to bed - it is one in the morning - but the kitchen is more than happy to send out a variety of burgers and fries and grilled cheeses with onion rings. Emma has seemed slightly on edge all night, though happy; Killian is eternally grateful that she was able to accompany him and witness their win herself, but he knows the awards weren’t quite her scene. Here, in Granny’s corner booth with a dollop of whipped cream on her nose from her oreo shake, she’s more in her element, laughing with their friends and sticking her tongue out at him when he swipes the whipped cream off.

(God, he loves her.)

His heart does a happy little jig when Emma rests her head on his shoulder as hot drinks and slices of pie are distributed, though he does his best to play it cool. Still, Killian can’t resist the urge to wrap his arm around her waist, both to support her and to tug her just a little bit closer. If the little sigh Emma exhales onto his shoulder is any indication, she’s not opposed either.

She wasn’t supposed to fall asleep, though; that was never something Killian had anticipated happening. Part of him doesn’t want to wake her back up. Emma looks so peaceful in sleep, her features fully relaxed and serene, and it seems like such a shame to disturb that. They’re closing in on three in the morning, however, and as much joy as Killian takes from having Emma Swan nestled against him, her own bed must be so much more comfortable than this booth and his bony shoulder.

“Swan,” he whispers at first. That’s not particularly successful; Emma hums a little half-asleep sound, but makes no attempt to make her way back to wakefulness. Indeed, she tries to burrow her face further into his flesh. It’s endearing, certainly, and cute beyond words, but not particularly helpful. “Swan,” he repeats, “you’ve got to wake up.” A little nudgey shrug is more successful, causing Emma to finally lift her head with bleary eyes and her brows furrowed in confusion.

“What time is it?” she slurs, stretching in a way that does  _ not _ accentuate her bust in the least. 

“Nearly 3 am. Can I walk you home?”

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” she yawns.

“I think it’s about time we were all heading home,” Mary Margaret cuts in, sliding out of the vinyl booth seat. Will and Belle already departed almost an hour ago, off to their own celebrations that Killian would rather not know more about, and Robin had left immediate after they were done eating to pick Roland up, but Ruby, Regina, Mary Margaret, and David had all stuck it out - though David looks like he’s about to fall asleep on the tabletop as well. There’s hugs all around as everyone piles into various cabs, but finally, it’s just Killian and Emma - just the way he’s wanted all night. They’ve both got things to say, Emma especially, and Killian’s ready to listen to all of it.

——— 

The night is peaceful, just the two of them - at least as far as that’s possible in a busy city of millions. The more Emma thinks about it, the more she thinks that the peace she feels is less due to the time or location, and more due to some inner serenity. It sounds ridiculous to think of it like that, but that seems to make the most sense. She’s happy; that’s what matters.

Her apartment is only a few blocks away, so without any verbal agreement or further discussion, Killian and Emma both set out walking in that direction instead of hailing a cab. She doesn’t need escorting home, not really, but she’d happily accepted all the same for the chance to spend a little more time in Killian’s company. It will give them a chance to talk uninterruptedly, anyways, if Emma can bring herself to upset their current harmony. She’s not nervous about it anymore, far from it; still, in the midst of such a perfect moment, it’s hard to bring herself to interrupt it with something so silly as talking.

Emma’s just preparing to break the silence herself when Killian jumps in first. “It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?” he asks softly, a gentle smile playing across his lips as he looks towards the skyline.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” Emma’s not talking about the weather. She thinks Killian might not be either. Quickly, she plows ahead with her intended speech before they both get lost in another moment again. “Listen, I just wanted to thank you, Killian. For tonight, and the speech - God, especially that speech - and… everything. Thank you.”

“Oh, Swan, that’s nothing you need to thank me for,” he replies, blushing red and letting his hand steal away to that nervous spot on his neck again.

“Yeah, there is,” she insists right back. “You didn’t have to do that.”

That catches Killian’s attention, his body suddenly snapping back upright from the bashful position it had curled into. “Of  _ course _ I did,” he says. There’s a fire in his gaze that wasn’t there before, that Emma usually only sees at the theater when he’s passionate about what he’s doing. “I know you don’t do this for the thanks, but I see all the work you put in every day. Hell, some days you hold this entire thing together through sheer force of will. All without any thanks.” He pauses to take a deep breath. “I didn’t do it for your thanks. I did it because you  _ deserve _ to be thanked. I think we all know I’m not exactly an unbiased source,” he chuckles wryly, “but what you do, day in and day out, is amazing.  _ You’re _ amazing, and brilliant, and… I just wanted everyone to know that. Yourself included.”

It amazes Emma, most days, the fierceness of what Killian feels for her. To hear him speak, you’d think she was an angel sent to earth, a powerful goddess walking amongst mortals, the most amazing thing he’s ever encountered. It’s even more awe-inspiring to realize that that’s exactly how he sees her.

The thing is, the way Emma sees Killian isn’t much different. Maybe she wouldn’t get so melodramatic in her descriptions the way he might - she’s never been one to use the word “angel” anyways - but she’d readily call him one of the kindest, most thoughtful men she knows, and more than deserving of all the good things that have come his way.

“Now, I don’t mean - please don’t take what I’m about to say as a demand for thanks, because it’s not, I didn’t say all those things for the thanks,” he continues, fully babbling now, “but I was just wondering - well, you see, I  _ like _ you, Emma, really like you, rather halfway in love if I’m placing all my cards on the table - and I know I’ve asked before, but so much has changed, and… well, to borrow the quote,  _ my affections and wishes are unchanged _ ,” he grins a little at his joke, albeit somewhat nervously. The silly man. “I suppose what I’m getting at, what I’m wondering — ”

Emma doesn’t wait to find out what he’s wondering, however, even if she’s pretty sure she knows what’s coming. Too impatient to wait any longer for him to collect his thoughts - can that boy ever ramble - she surges up suddenly to pull his face down to hers and mash their lips together, one hand sliding into his hair to tug and caress the strands the way she’s wanted to for longer than she’s willing to admit. Weeks, for sure; probably months. Whatever the case, the moment is  _ now _ , and she’s going to revel in every bit of it.

Though Killian is initially caught off guard, emitting a little shocked grunt (Emma would  _ kill _ for photographic evidence of it, imagining cartoonish popped eyes and pinwheeling arms), he relaxes into the kiss almost immediately. Maybe if Killian was initiating, their kiss would be a gentle, deliberate thing; that’s the way she’s always imagined it, at least. Emma’s the one in charge though, so this kiss is fierce, hungry, almost desperate. She wants to learn all of it, all at once - the way he sounds when she nips at his lip or sucks at his tongue, whether he likes it when she pulls on the hair at the nape of his neck (and oh, if those groans and moans are indication, he does, he  _ absolutely _ does),  _ all  _ of it. Killian seems much of the same mind as his hands settle possessively at her hips, thumbs tracing along the sheer panel at her midriff as his head tilts and readjusts in a quest for the perfect angle at which to explore her mouth. It’s the realization of months and months of longing and repressed feelings and they slam together, pressed tight against each other’s fronts as their mouths practically meld into one, and it’s  _ perfect _ .

They finally break apart when more than the quickest gulps of air become necessary, but Emma’s hand slips down to grip Killian’s lapel - for stability or comfort or whatever else she doesn’t know, but it somehow feels necessary for her continued existence. “That was…”

“Yeah, it was,” he replies, before letting out a laugh - a joyful, winded sound. “God, what was that? You didn’t even let me get out the question,” he teases gently. 

Even his ribbing can’t wipe the smile off her face, though. “You were taking too long,” she shrugs, mindlessly nosing at his neck. It’s a new frontier, one she looks forward to kissing and nibbling once she gets a second wind.

“Ah, well, forgive me. This seems a little redundant now, but I don’t suppose you’d want to get a cup of coffee sometime?” He’s obviously aware of the sense of deja vu from his first attempt at this, grinning madly with a twinkle in his eye.

“What do you think?” Emma whispers in reply, drawing him back down for another round of kissing.

As if there was any other answer now, after all they’ve done and all they’ve been through, but the most enthusiastic  _ yes. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY FINALLY DID THE KISSING THING. I know you guys have been waiting for a while - was it satisfying? I hope so! We've just got a sappy epilogue left before we're done with this. 
> 
> Thanks to my beta, @snidgetsafan! We'd both like you to know that this only narrowly avoided being named "A Night We'll Never Forget", after the song from "Carrie: the Musical", because we were both deeply amused by the idea of it.
> 
> Also posted on tumblr - I'm @shireness-says. Come reblog and let me know what you think!
> 
> I love hearing your reactions - thanks for leaving them, and being patient with how long it takes me to respond. I treasure each one, I swear!
> 
> Thanks for reading! I promise to get next week's out in a more timely fashion.


	20. Epilogue: Superboy and the Invisible Girl (Reprise)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title pulled from "Next to Normal". Strictly speaking, there's not a reprise of "Superboy and the Invisible Girl" in the show, but I thought "Reprise" would be appropriate for the epilogue and it kind of mirrors ch. 13. You'll see.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me through all this - I hope you enjoy this last segment!

_ Four years later _

“Welcome back to  _ Sign Off _ , everybody!”

Emma knows that Killian will do his ear scratch when he finds her watching his segment, but she wouldn’t miss this for the world. It’s like reliving a little bit of their history. Plus, it’s not every day that your spouse is on national television; skipping this would earn her “Bad Wife” points, or something. 

He’s still bashful as he walks out, still kind of ducks his head when he waves and acts like he’s embarrassed to be there. You’d think after several years of magazine interviews and newspaper profiles and talk show appearances he’d lose some of that shyness and uncertainty, or at least get used to it, but some things never change. It’s a damn good thing she finds it cute. 

Archie is as charming as ever, shaking Killian’s hand with an enthusiasm usually reserved for inside jokes. That’s just who the host is, though. “So, it’s been a while since we saw you last. I hear a few things have happened.”

“Oh, just a few.”

Hopper starts pulling out photos. “ _ Pride and Prejudice _ was a hit.”

“Yes, a great group effort. They just closed a few months ago, congrats to everyone involved.”

The host shows a picture from his Tony speech. “You won a Tony for playing Mr. Darcy.”

“So they tell me. My brother kidnapped the statue.”

(That’s only halfway true. Yes, Liam had taken the statue for a while, setting up a popular Instagram account to display all the places he took the golden figure. One of those places had been Henry’s 6th grade English class, turning her son into a middle school celebrity for a couple of months. Though bringing Liam and Killian along with the award probably had something to do with that, too.)

Emma can just spot the Tony now from where she sits, bookending a cluster of novels on the top shelf of the bookshelf in her and Killian’s apartment. It had been a little bittersweet, leaving her old apartment where she and Henry had both grown and flourished, but she and Killian had both agreed that they would need more space. It’s worth it, anyways, to wake up next to Killian every day in a place that’s  _ theirs _ . Emma misses living next door to Elsa some days, but now that Henry’s fifteen her supervision isn’t quite so needed anymore anyways. It would have come to an end regardless when Elsa had moved in with Liam in his fancy apartment. Emma instead contents herself with the knowledge that Elsa’s job at the Met - her dream job, really - means she and Liam will be based in New York for the foreseeable future, even if the latter occasionally does have to leave for filming in other locations. Killian likes to joke about his brother and Elsa “living in sin”, like they hadn’t done the same thing, but it does mean they still get to see Liam and Elsa fairly often. 

Her real Killian walks back into the living room at that point. “Oh Christ, not this drivel. Emma, I’m embarrassed enough as it is, let’s find something else to watch.” He may gripe and groan, but he still collapses onto the couch beside her, letting out an appreciative and exhausted sigh.

“Oh, I’m watching this, babe,” she replies, smiling over at Killian before burrowing her head into his side. She knows by this point that he’s all bark; he’s a pushover, really, especially where his family is concerned.

She must have missed the introduction of his latest movie project – an interesting project portraying Pan as the villain of Neverland with Killian playing Captain Hook as a misunderstood rogue – because there’s publicity stills up on the screen when she redirects her attention back that way. 

“My stepson’s a little upset, really, because he had the idea first,” the Killian on the screen explains. “Which, trust me, was  _ not _ the reaction I was hoping for.”

“Hey, that was almost funny,” Emma comments, nudging him in the side as the audience laughs.

“It’s embarrassing, is what it is,” Killian grouses. It must be that thing where actors don’t like seeing their own work - Emma’s read about that before. It’s not going to stop her from affectionately picking at him, though, and it’s not going to keep her from watching the whole thing.

“And on a personal note, does everyone remember this moment from last time?” Archie asks, cutting to the clip of Killian talking about a certain prickly and dedicated stage manager. When the camera cuts back, she knows what’s coming, and smiles when she feels Killian press a kiss to her head as the host pulls out a copy of their wedding photo. “Well good news to all those shipping that on the internet, because you two tied the knot!” The audience cheers, and as Emma watches televised Killian grin widely, she thinks that’s the most comfortable she’s ever seen him in an interview. “Now, how long have you two been married now?”

“Coming up on two years, three months from now.”

He’d proposed one evening when Emma had least expected it. They’d talked about marriage before - considering that they were living together and in a committed relationship, having that conversation seemed like the responsible thing to do - but it had been a lovely surprise all the same. Killian had been waiting with the ring when she got home from work on a Wednesday, on bended knee and everything in their little foyer with Henry filming just around the corner. Killian had explained later, after the  _ yes _ and the ring and an awful lot of kissing, that it had seemed important to make his proposal a family affair and include Henry. He loves her son, just as much as he loves her (albeit in a different way); Emma knows that, but it still means a lot that he’d included her son in their major life moment in that way. Henry had been a part of their love story, after all.

(Emma suspects that there may have been a conversation between Killian and Henry before the proposal as well where Killian had asked her son for her hand, but neither of them has ever fessed up to it, and she’s okay with leaving that as a man-to-man moment if they prefer it.)

The wedding had been a low-key affair, much to Mary Margaret’s dismay - just a little courthouse ceremony. Emma had never been the big white wedding type, though, had never had those dreams as a child. Now that she’s faced with the opportunity for all that, she finds that she doesn’t really want or need it. At the end of the day, they just want to be married; they love each other, almost to distraction, and waiting any longer than absolutely necessary feels like too great a burden. 

Still, they’d done it up as much as the quick circumstances allowed. Emma had bought a clearance wedding dress that swished around her calves, and Killian had taken Henry to get a nice suit - his first, the sleeves and legs given extra length to be let out as the growth spurt from hell inevitably continued so they could get more than one use out of the damn thing. They had even arranged for a bouquet and boutonnières, even if Emma doesn’t know anything about flowers. As soon as Liam had arrived back in the city from filming in Atlanta, they had gathered all their friends and family on a dark Monday and made it official.

Henry stood as Best Man. Mary Margaret cried. Ruby wolf-whistled. And Emma had never been happier as Killian dipped her into a dramatic kiss.

“Are you happy, my love?” he’d whispered into her ear later at Granny’s. The older woman had gladly donated her diner for the reception, closing for the occasion so they could all eat cake and dance to jukebox hits.

“What do you think?” she’d quipped right back, before laughing and drawing him down into a kiss. It feels like they’ve come full circle; it feels like  _ home _ .

(She may still be Emma Swan professionally, but there’s a certain thrill to hearing Mrs. Jones.)

“And one more thing…” Archie continues on the TV, drawing Emma’s attention back to the screen. If possible, televised Killian grins even wider: if what she thinks is about to happen is actually about to happen, she doesn’t blame him in the least. “… You two had a little girl.” The photo on the screen is a sweet one of her little fingers curled around Killian’s thumb. Emma knows it well; it hangs in the nursery, right next to the rocker where Emma’s lately been spending what feels like half her nights.

“We did. She just turned five months old last week.”

“And her name? If you guys are ok to announce it.”

“Hazel Elizabeth Jones.” The audience aws, which the tiny baby propped in her Papa’s arms here in their living room seems to find objectionable as she starts squirming and snuffling. “Emma and I thought it would be appropriate to pay homage to the show where we met.”

They’d had it in mind from the start, ever since they’d found out they were having a girl. There’d been a good bit of debate and waffling back and forth about the first name, but they’d always agreed on Elizabeth for the middle. Hazel hadn’t actually been on the shortlist, just something that’d they’d discussed and put aside, but then she’d arrived - six pounds four ounces, dark hair, loud cry,  _ perfect _ , and it had just… fit. If there’s one thing Emma’s learned since Killian, it’s not to question a good thing.

Parenting now, 15 years after her first child, is both easier and harder. There’s an exhaustion that comes with age that’s only compounded by caring for an infant. It helps though, more than she can ever describe, to have a partner in this, not to mention a secure housing and financial situation. Killian’s a great dad - to  _ both  _ her children, really - and it’s a particular joy to watch him with their baby. 

“You’re okay, lass, you’re okay,” he murmurs now, bouncing their daughter against his chest to attempt to calm her down. It works, thank God; Henry’s been great about all the changes in their lives and is lucky enough to sleep through almost everything, but Emma still doesn’t like taking that chance on a school night.

“Little drama queen,” Emma murmurs affectionately, tweaking a little sock-clad foot. She’d forgotten just how tiny everything about babies is somewhere in the decade and a half between Henry and Hazel, but has loved rediscovering it. 

“Maybe she’ll be an actor like Papa one day,” Killian suggests, quirking a teasing eyebrow in Emma’s direction. 

She snorts. “Not if Mom has any say in it.”

“What, you don’t think we need more actors in this family?” His tone conveys mock-insult, but Emma can see that twinkle in his eye that means he’s joking.

“Nah, she’s gonna be a techie. I can feel it.”

Emma can faintly hear Archie offerings his congratulations and asking about Killian’s upcoming turn as Harold Hill in a televised performance of  _ The Music Man _ , but she’s not really paying attention anymore, too preoccupied with this moment with her little family. Maybe that was Killian’s devious plan all along - distract her from his talk show appearance with their  _ very _ cute baby. She can’t really complain about that.

“Ah, well, I suppose I can’t argue that,” he concedes. “Not when her mother’s so brilliant at it.”

Even after all this time, a compliment from Killian can still make her blush. He knows it, too, which only makes him do it more. She loves that about him, though. Suddenly, it seems very important that she express that very fact.

“I love you, Killian.” She’s said it hundreds, thousands of times before, but it still strikes her with wonder every time, just how much she loves the man sitting next to her.

“I love you too, my Swan,” he replies, placing a careful kiss on her lips while trying not to jostle the baby.

Though Emma knew accepting that stage managing job almost five years ago now would change her life, she never imagined in a million years that she’d end up here, with a husband and baby and her son sleeping just down the hall in a life better than she ever could have fathomed.

She wouldn’t change a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap, folks! Thanks for sticking with my not-so-little story this whole way - I know I really tested your patience at times!
> 
> Thanks to @snidgetsafan one last time for her beta services. And thank you to all of you, for all your comments and support!
> 
> After this, I've got a January Joy piece coming out on the 22nd, and I'll probably try to put out so one-shots for a while. However, I do have several new MC ideas rattling around in my head that I'm hoping to outline and start posting! No more schedules, though; it stresses me out too much.
> 
> This will also be posted on tumblr, where I'm @shireness-says. I've got all my works except "But Never Inconstant" up there, and will continue posting new stuff.
> 
> One more time: THANK YOU for reading this, and I hope you liked it!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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